Mark Turbyfill

I CLIMBED up the rough mountain-side

Through the forest of dead trees.

I touched their smooth, stark limbs,

And learned much of the white beauty of death.

Whose taut, slender thigh was this?

And this, whose gracious throat?

O life, you are not more beautiful

Than this silent, curving death is beautiful!

And Eternity—

I think I heard it cry:

“Centre within centre,

Death or Life,

One am I.”