Cilla, writing  We are the shortest laureates*. But this afternoon Cilla almost touches the sky, writing on her motel balcony, two storeys up.   Her head in its peaked cap, her pen are outlined in a strange significant shadow a little laureate traced by Rouault   and in the shadows a shorter laureate watching admiring her application, her skywriting. The day moon is there, the blinding sun.   Her neck grows warm, her neat head bends over the page, she stretches her arms and seems to frown and squint.   It is words, you clowns, the other laureate thinks not…