White

White – the quiet page turned at dawn,
the pale mountain mist that drifts over Dover,
the chalk that writes the horizon in a brittle script.
It is the hush between the crackle of a fire and the roar of a storm.

It is the colour of a first‑summer leaf, unhaunted by dust,
and the soft glow that invites idle hands to brush the brush.
With every smile it softens, a gentle touch of a lover’s hand,
a country road dusted with the promise of spring.

White remembers the winter – the spires of Westminster, wrapped
in a veil of cloud‑soft snow, the bells still to be sounded.
It hangs above a crowd waiting for the songs of the night,
a stage unlit but alive with tales still left unspoken.

Yet white is not just absence, nor simply clean or pure:
it is a marrow‑brown – a rotting piece of wood exposed to light,
how light reveals a hidden colour of our own heart.
Thus white is the canvas, the memory, the unadvertised truth.