White

White is the evening nature of my thought

When neutral time that drains the night of green

Flows through the dusk in mimic dawn of white.

So pale the distance where blue morning shone

Knits to the whitest crises of our stars,

Burning the nightly ambience of alone,

And evil evident of coloured hours

Dies in this dark, whose sexless shapes of black

Are only active in our twilight fears.

For at day's death the whitest needs awake

When seeping pallor undermines the night

And white submerges all in evening lake,

Where, as a lode attracting all time's light,

You are white's evening nature of my thought.

George Woodcock

(Picture: White cloud, Nicholas Roerich)