The sun shone

Calm is the landscape when the storm has passed,
Brighter the fields, and fresh with fallen rain.
Where gates beat out new colour from the hills
Rivers fly faster, and upon their banks
Birds preen their wings, and irises revive.
Not so the cities burnt alive with fire
Of man's destruction: when their smoke is spent,
No phoenix rises from the ruined walls.


Vernon Watkins

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