CLOUDS:

Clouds like people are varied and constantly changing,

Close and hugging, then those distantly afar and ranging,

The streamers, wisps, the puffs, the sheets and the scales,

Those scudding high, those brooding deep in wet soggy Dales.

The breath of the Gods, the cirrus of Angels painting the sky,

Golden, silver, bronze and pink wispy threads gracing the eye,

Lenticular of crisp lace, Cumulus of cotton as soft as new buds,

 Kissing vast blue heavens with tender and caressing soft scuds.

Birds flirt on high with the nimbus, who in turn promises rain,

Their metallic sharp beaks flashing lightening in stormy disdain,

The purple, the mauve, the scarlet, the orange, tender soft pink,

As the eagles fly high and rosy flamingoes dance, dip and drink.

Clouds that hang heavy, dark, menacing, black, bruised and grey,

Clouds flying and waltzing through spring into long summer days,

Clouds that peep behind gay rainbows, those that tickle the sun,

Every cloud a unique personality and I love every individual one.

But special are those clouds that seduce the dark jet velvet night,

With special ebony faces, gracing stars with lusty whispering flight,

 Beautiful beribboned figurines, sleepless in the arms of the moon,

Whispering their wanderings to the wind, in their silent waltzing tune.