A lightning bolt, mainlined to a spire, channels electricity between the heavens and the Earth with so much power.
* * *
All the candles he has lit, he has seen, has had lit for him. Offerings of light and he, he offers light too. These offerings are full of the weight of hope and yet they are light.
He wakes early to catch the sun’s rise. In the evenings he reads in a gloomy room and outside – the city, its artificial light…
He strains to see a word, black ink on white page, but all becomes grey. The word fades and vanishes.
MW Bewick 