Raven Black
When Morris came to the silk-bound town
he sought a subtler shade of dye; a pigment
of his imagination, yet to be made and not yet found.
Raven Black was his holy grail: a richer tone lent accent,
then bent to a fierce intensity by native indigo
For this thing Morris knew: for black you must have blue.
His blue could be no alien hue: no Prussian trick
mordant-fixed, no need of additive, no aniline
from the coal-banked Rhine, seeping in a vulgar slick.
Another river wound round Wardle’s town;
not chemist’s brine -– the Churnet, mineral-soft
and serpentine. There, long days over dyeing trays:
between the waters Morris learnt old mens’ ways.
But not for him the cruder search of absolute
For Morris knew a deeper truth – that, however far you reach
you will always find a blacker black beneath.
Morris craved the corvid sheen
a moment in between two others combine
produced the glisten on a raven’s wing
That moment gained he knew would pass; nothing
is for ever fast. No matter that it fades; it is right
that the colour is true and the memory bright.
Mark Johnson
Great poem, Mark. I love the symbolism.
ReplyDeleteA graphic artist truly knows
ReplyDeleteThe value of the blue
Adding cyan to the black
Will produce the blackest hue.