In a crow-black sky hangs a white-sun. A face made from shadow calls to me. Wide fluffy stairs, the colour of driven snow, descend to earth, like the steps of St Paul’s. They invite me up to a world of absolute beauty, of black and white.
But when I get there, I find a cold place. Still beautiful, but empty. Empty except for a million silver pinpricks moving away like friends once loved, now lost.
The white-sun is only a mirror, reflecting the yellow one I left below. It’s heart, is a grey rock that, has forgotten how to love.