White is for open-season

Multi-coloured, did someone say

with hues reserved

for love’s unbelievable

and believing eyes?

No, love is white

a fresh page canvass

where eye and word

despair and bliss

conjure their primary colours

sketch and paint and fine-line

but cannot replay

the moving heart-finger’s trace

like a Disney cartoon

in line by line and tiny curl succession

narrating the history

of journey and disintegration,

yes an open space

for colour dance and illusion

tentative footprint and perceived perfection

drawn with flourish or soft touch dab,

and unrecoverable file

at closure:

a lot of colour

between open-season white

and the white at world’s end.

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