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Description
There is a colour that will cure you, if you can find it.

In ancient days when seasons cloaked space
It was mixed in autumn’s first forest,
And thickly stirred into being from blood and sunflowers
By a laughing child.

It was the first part of fire,
The first light inside a cocoon when day broke,
The shimmer of the first fish against the deep blue,
And the first saturated taste,
Pulled from the sky when the clouds lost their white virginity.

It is the brief glistening of tousled Magdalene hair in oil paint,
The feeling of purring and slumber in a tortoiseshell blanket.
You will find it in rippling, marbled psychedelia,
And it will seem full, a plastic embrace.

By now your tongue will identify it too:
The chewy tummy parts of gingerbread,
Or sun shafts through tumblers of whisky
Like God through stained glass.

You will know the ones in its robes by their vital stillness,
Their beaming.
When pale blue and white is too bleak for divinity,
Or gold leaf is too speckled and rough for the eye,
They pilgrimage to this hue, returning,
Reinforced by its vivid assault on the senses.

And when you have searched, after everything,
Even when blind, you can find it.
Its soft light is feeling as well as sight,
Like standing in the glow of a thousand prayer candles.

Description
There is a colour that will cure you, if you can find it.

In ancient days when seasons cloaked space
It was mixed in autumn’s first forest,
And thickly stirred into being from blood and sunflowers
By a laughing child.

It was the first part of fire,
The first light inside a cocoon when day broke,
The shimmer of the first fish against the deep blue,
And the first saturated taste,
Pulled from the sky when the clouds lost their white virginity.

It is the brief glistening of tousled Magdalene hair in oil paint,
The feeling of purring and slumber in a tortoiseshell blanket.
You will find it in rippling, marbled psychedelia,
And it will seem full, a plastic embrace.

By now your tongue will identify it too:
The chewy tummy parts of gingerbread,
Or sun shafts through tumblers of whisky
Like God through stained glass.

You will know the ones in its robes by their vital stillness,
Their beaming.
When pale blue and white is too bleak for divinity,
Or gold leaf is too speckled and rough for the eye,
They pilgrimage to this hue, returning,
Reinforced by its vivid assault on the senses.

And when you have searched, after everything,
Even when blind, you can find it.
Its soft light is feeling as well as sight,
Like standing in the glow of a thousand prayer candles.