Buxton Spoken Words

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