There is a drawing I did as a child of clouds
round and white,
and then I began to see their silent majesty.
—
Today, they’re greys and whites, tracked with
tractor tyres and old bones
softened with pastels and sheep’s wool.
—-
They make no sound as they trail across the sky,
quietly changing the heavens
mirrored in the colours of the ocean and hillside lakes.
—
In the evening they dim the rainbow with crimson,
gold, orange, yellow with puce,
mixing and mingling, glowing with grace.
—-
Early, they catch the sun’s rays and waken the sleeping
with pretty pinks and hues,
that brighten a weary world for a morning of peace.
—-
Clouds silent as angels of light float by.
Feathered birds flying over the seas,
Towering mountains. Roiling, night black on the horizon.
—-
Howling winds rage and they learn to race,
blackening the skies,
torn by sun bright lightening, shaking the world with storms.
—-
Clouds bringing drizzling days, heavy and lowering,
soaking the thirsty earth.
so many shapes and strange stories from afar.
—-
A snowflake is unique in its birthing,
as singular are clouds.
We change as we watch them for Grace is there.
