At dawn I dreamed of wispy clouds – I had the time
to yield and watched the regimented lines of cirrus
racing north by west, elusive strands of airy ice that
spread up high across the growing gravid sky.
Each seemed less obsessed than speeding to a
destination far-away, constrained in ever shifting
shapes I guessed that lead somewhere to sea; in
my mind beyond the lines of obfuscating hills, a
deep unseen, enthroned in solemn dignity.
This afternoon the clouds are cumulus for so their
shape suggests, dumpy lumps that hang in sombre
clumps descended from their aerie vastness. A tired
cirrhosis of their former selves, they droop about
the mordant blue and plod their way so patiently
in ordered flow from west to east.
Tonight I’ll dream of stratus clouds and gentle rain to
drench the shroud that binds the earth in powdered
dust, rising in asthmatic puffs about our dusty feet;
sleep I will with cirrus wings to soar above the earthy
things that strive to snare my clouded dreams.
© I.D. Carswell
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