A child’s face in the middle of the night, small in the gloom, waking from a dream. Patterns of light cast from the moon, pale ribbons on dark wood floors.
A circle of ricotta in the middle of the plate, grainy, soft, makes me think that maybe the moon is made of cheese. The plate sits on a tablecloth edged with lace, pretty as a wedding gown, reminiscent of grand Victorian tea rooms full of Royal Albert china.
Stars tinged with yellow, miracles of brightness. Clouds, the softest of all, the fairy floss only angels can eat.
Milk in glass bottles, so solid the colour of it fills your eyes. Eggs, so smooth and flawless you wouldn’t dare put a crack in the shade of them.
Doves and bunnies and puppies and butterflies and certain kinds of cats. Sheets on the line, billowing as if people are thrusting themselves against them.
Front doors, back doors, window frames. Tall ceilings that seem to go on forever.
Roses, azaleas, snowdrops, snowflakes. Lilies, daisies, sugar, ice. Sea spray leaving trails on sand. That is the colour of white.
A white flag, signifying the surrender of labels and barriers should be erected right across the world and named the great white hope forcing us to realise that maybe it’s not so hard to learn to love one another.
We can walk in light, white and clear and inhale its purity and not be afraid. We can appreciate the silence, the stillness of white in all its forms as it folds itself like a cloak over the land. Because white needn’t be broken or tense or empty. Or the colour of goodbye.
Because white is the colour upon which our world is built, bold, skilfully cut. Luminous stone springing into an ivory morning.
