Across ten thousand miles my thoughts fly to you, a swarm of pastel-coloured moths to beat against your window-panes in the dark. Will you hear them and let them in? Or will you find them in the morning, dead on the sill,sweep them up and  throw them away?     Whatever happens, they will continue to fly until they form a fluttering rainbow over sea and land, across which I can walk to you and beg for admittance, bearing in my hand a bouquet of dream flowers.