Suffolk, England

Sam. (This is for all parents) …

Up there in the summer sky,

I showed my mum a big, white man.

He was really there, but I wonder why

she smiled and called him Sam Fairy Anne?

© David Crawford 2002.

Summer Storm

The Summer storm is brewing
The clouds are gathering round
And all across the sky
Is a cacophony of sound
The lightning flashes sharply
And splits the sky in two
From the sparks of Gaia’s eyes
As they turn the darkest hue
Nature at its fiercest
Reminding man once more
Whatever he invents
Is a drop on ocean’s floor
So marvel at the strength
Revel in the sight
For Nature’s glorious powers
Are showing all their might

© Phil Sanders 2007.

Mosman Park,

Western Australia

Cloudland

they
float
drift
sail on the wind
don’t need anchors
know tempest and calm
hide moon and stars
rain on our parade
enhance sunrise and sunset
depress us
inspire us
make us want to see beyond.

© Ann Brodziak 2007

Monsters in the Sky

They were the most magnificent clouds I had ever seen.

Like the foam of a breaking wave, they tumbled across the sultry summer sky.
They were like a splatter of white paint against a stretch of lurid blue,
and, at the same time, resembling enormous swollen tongues, unfurling from
the heavens, and never once stopping.

As I sat in the mottled grey backseat of the bus to Bronte, I watched those
clouds. And the more I watched, the more I found myself slipping. Slipping,
so simply and so effortlessly, like a wet bar of soap. Away from myself,
away from the bus, even slipping away from reality; and then I slipped, for
the very last time, out of this world and into another.

At that moment, I would have done anything, anything in the world, to sink
into, no, to immerse myself in those large, thick pillows that looked so
crisp, so soft. Anything at all, for those great lolloping clouds.

Anything for those monsters. Those monsters in the sky.

© Natasha Lau. 2007.

Spring-cleaning is under way.

When morning clouds scuttle away
I shake the blanket of sleep from my head
And step into the warm mist of the shower.
I dress in fleecy clothes of cloudlike softness,
And my hair, wispy now, floats like cirrus clouds
Around my sunny smile.
Cumulus clouds of cotton wool add moisturizer, gently, to my ageing face
And a delicate cloud of powder colours its fragile whiteness.

Then, having aired my bed
I toss the duvet and watch it settle
Into its plump altocumulus mounds and hollows
So soft and inviting, a cloudy marshmallow of comfort.
The temptation to sink back into my winter cocoon
Is fogging my brain…
But no, I must seize the day
Spring-cleaning is underway.

Clouds of dust slink in every room
Stratus-like, they spread greyness
As I disturb the winter slumber of books and cupboards
Tired cushions and fading curtains.
I wipe a nimbostratus cloud from dull mirrors
And the washing machine with its towering load,
Begins its low thunderous rumble
As it spews winter from my home.

Out in the garden the thunder rumble turns into the cracking of cottons
Flashing and snapping on the line in the whirl of a gusty breeze.
The sky a clear cloudless blue,
For aren’t all the clouds in my house?
The windows shine as I wipe away their grey winter haze
And the sun gleams into all the rooms
As my cloud world dissolves
And spring steps in.

©Jacqueline Mai May 2007

Could a cloud lie?

Great dollops of whipping cream clouds boiled up
from the south late this evening changing shapes
plump forms rolling over one another in play
huggable.

If you look away, of course you miss it all
the sky is clear until another storybook page
slips into view.

A child preparing to bed down under the stars
could see a bedtime tale unfold in the sleepy silence,
fresh air gently stroking his soft hair
and the faint hum of cicadas singing his lullaby.

Now I have no child to keep me company,
to remind me that stories at bedtime are essential,
be they read from a book or from the skies.

Yet I can tell myself stories, partly made up
and partly real, and fall asleep believing in the
“lived happily ever after” because

a cloud could never lie.

© Margaret H. Brooks 2007. From Shatter of Weeds

Birmingham, UK.

Clouds of moods.

A cloudy day, a moody grey

I feel the same inside

You read me well, we share the mood

That neither of us can hide.

You show me your mood

Though I dare not show mine

So how do you see through me?

That all my thoughts are thine.

Thin and high, you are far away

Just like my thoughts right now

My mind is drifting, from here to there

You share my mood some how.

A ray of sun across the sky

You let it through today

Is this because you share my mood

And let me have my way.

A lightening bolt, a clap of thunder

You share my anger quite well

Yes, today I lost my temper

So just how could you tell?

I feel good today, all is OK

A gentle billow of fluff and white

How do you know? Do you read my mind?

Your mood is mine, quite right!

© Adrian Beckett. 2007.

Clouds

Now I feel

And love

The subtle

Seductive light

Of your gifts.

Clouds,

Simply clouds

In changing shapes

A windswept, living painting

Of air and water

And light

Thank you

Who’s to say

If anyone on this God-forsaken freeway

Got it while driving?

Surely they must have said,

At least,

“What a day,”

While changing lanes at high speed.

But I saw and followed your gifts.

© Daniel Roest. 2007

Lines

1. Lung Ta

Lung Ta, wind horse,
symbol of speed,
left to endure
Tibetan clouds –
cloth to cold wind,
multi-colour,
cotton or silk tied to long strings…
their prayer flags woven in peace & compassion
to blow upwards as offerings to the Divine
on mountain tops between
Lhasa & Kathmandu…
like an infinite washing line.

2. Good Fortune

I never looked at us this way.
Bits of ourselves in suspension in-between
grass & gossip sky;
linen alive in Shetland blue,
serene, so white…
like talking sails
tied to our northern latitude –
from line to line, life entangled,
clipped to resist to the tsi-tsi
echoed in wind,
through riding songs.

© Nat Hall. 2007.

i stopped to watch
the rain today
fall helplessly
from the sky,

drizzle down
through sunday’s sleep
feel the cloud’s heart cry

painted from
the window seat,
a scene
as life goes by,

feel the meloncholy
of which it speaks,
without confusion
as to why.

© CHIIPMUNK. 2007

East Sussex, UK

BEYOND THE CLOUDSPOTTER’S GUIDE.

Who should now delineate
the armorial of clouds?

There are the numerable
species and their principal
conformations, but not one
is stable.
Evolution
is their only constancy
throughout imaginable
time.
Who would begin to list
aeons of instant changes,
to parse them for patterns and
revelations?
Only some
mad blazoner, king of arms
obsessed with limitlessly
quartering infinity.

© Rebbla. 2007

Your Face

I saw your face in the clouds one day;
wise, thoughtful and smiling!

I saw you face from far away crossed by a jet’s vapor trail
so what can one say?

An angel, a blessing, a curse or despair?
I know full well that no one will remember or care.

I saw your face in the clouds that vanished into the air,
without a word to say!

© Nick Houvras. 2007

France.

Weather or not…

Every cloud has a silver lining
So they say
But not today.

I set off this morning, my head in the clouds
The weekend was near
Good reason to cheer.

I was walking on air, a spring to my step
But it wasn’t long
Before it all went wrong…

In those muggy moments before a storm
Beware the stifling suffocation
Of optimistic elation…

The Boss, a notable tyrant, had a face like thunder
Oh, oh, watch out!
There’s trouble about!

“Let’s not cloud the issue”, the boss roared.
“Your job’s on the line!”
(It had to be mine.)

It never rains but it pours
Is certainly true.
Has it happened to you?

The Boss blustering and threatening
Stormed out of the room
With a thunderous BOOM!

In a fog of confusion I weathered the storm
Worked like a whirlwind, a roaring cyclone
I blew up a great tempest and huge squally dust clouds.
I scorched through my work sweat poured down around me
I had the wind in my sail
To no avail…

Needless to say I left under a cloud
Sunless and dreary
Drizzly and weary.

But that’s blown over now; I’m on cloud 9
Got a new job
And the outlook is fine!

©Jacqueline Mai April 2007

Sussex UK.

A LAST JUDGEMENT

His memory’s first
clouds denied him salvation,
louring over flames
and massed swathes of fugitives.

The panorama
left no space within the frame
for shelter. Terror
spread wide beyond the gilding.

He would never read
the legend, always rushing
past into futures
where clouds stilled his thoughts in dread.

© rebbla, Sussex. UK.

East Sussex, United Kingdom

A Cloud Sonnet

Clouds of the skies are nothing like the sun
Rain proves more cooling than what shade they shed
A brilliant moon grants a victory won
And the way through the snow has more solid a tread
But you, you are so fair, so free
Flowers spared weeds or a blossom without stem
Like so much wool scraped on an air dead tree
Cotton more free than the hands that once picked them
And yet you, you are all around
Wisped whither you will – still you choose to linger
And share with us that sudden sound
That spoils summer days without pointing a finger
When it’s done we’ll run, long for the sun we want
Done with fun save one – I stand there non-chalant

© Jonathan Freeman.

Contrails.

What would Howard

if, when towered

Cumuli

or Cirri flowered,

what would he have thought or written,

if, above the fields of Britain,

up on high,

and playful as an Ahrimanic kitten,

he had seen stretch right across the blue

contrails from aeroplanes? But never flew

aught but dragonfly

then,and birds and bats, and other insects too.

Or if Shelley

rising early

and raising eye

to his clouds of loved Italy,

had seen planes through a widened rent

in the broken woof of that wind built tent

(off to Dubai?)

leave contrails there where stratus never went?

Now that clouds are surrogated

the vault itself is violated.

Techno sky!

How can antidotes then be created?

Maybe only if we’re able

When round about swarm toil and trouble

like incubi

to create a blue bell bubble.

By this I mean an inner space.

Out there cruel prowls the Wolf of fearsome face

and dark, insistent cry.

Within, a Sun illumined, Sun warmed Samothrace.

© Stephen Schaffhauser.

Sussex UK.

I would dream of scents,
walled-in, rising in sunlight,
a perfect garden
for quietus. Over time,
I added clouds to cool me.

© rebbla, Sussex. UK.

THE CLOUD’S LAMENT

A cloud’s gotta do what a cloud’s gotta do!
You think we enjoy destroying the blue?
It’s all right you pestering, “Please don’t rain!”
But clouds that don’t burst are in awful pain.

It isn’t as if we can choose where we go,
We’re sent wherever the four winds blow.
The sun will always stand out from the crowd
But, rain or shine, a cloud is a cloud.

That’s how it is and has always been
For us puddle-makers – it’s not that we’re mean;
We’d like you to play under skies of blue
But a cloud’s gotta do what a cloud’s gotta do!

© Celia Warren 2007 UK

Cagliari, Italy.

The Other.

The baby cloud flies
not thinking next to the group
has an other rain.

© Tony Caredda.

OBSERVATION OF THE SKY

There is a face in the left hand
Looking up to the heavens and,
the eyes are half closed!
A gentle expression that is moving and white
grey and black like a giant cloud it drifts with the current of the
wind.
And says nothing like a silent prayer.
Now it has become a dogs head on the shoulders of a man
And the moon looks perturbed that something so close yet so far,
can dominate the sky.
Leaving no trail behind or gesture to remember.

© Nick Houvras.

Tulsa, OK. USA / Halifax, Nova Scotia

O Cirrus

In the silence lifting on the breath of heaven
the temporal cirrus and tossing crown
the lowest of heaven’s aspirations
a leaving of royal weaving found

Yet, my heart is drawn upward, cirrus !
while gazing at the fabric torn
high above earth’s unneeded worries
gazing at the beauty worn

The earth in a temporal moment
as if needed be, this day
to cover our lowly aspirations
with a high, directed song
to the eternal blue unending
and accompanying wind, breathing along

The lowest of heaven and the highest of earth
the visible sign of a merry mirth
fortelling of green-giving rain
arising on tomorrow’s wind around
and the ‘just so’ easing of the pain
of the lowly men, here bound

O Cirrus, not loud, nor featureless to man
born to be inspiration’s friend
the flying hope of earth’s highest dreams*
and deepest yearnings become known
high, above, where there is no sound
Beautiful, Perfect, Quiet, Alone !

© Kent Turner.

in Bath, UK.

Cloudspotting

We sat on the beach in a row of deckchairs,
tried to talk the clouds out of the sky
and into our notebooks.

We said they were the work of an idle god
who rag-rolled the sky between pipes.
Dirty white lint on hot blue sheets, just ironed.

The stuffing loved out of soft toys.
Whipped cream remnants on an unlicked bowl,
someone said, and it was time to eat.

As the sun fell we strolled back under a skyfull
of what you might call altocumulus undulatus.
We saw Shinto gravel gardens, raked by drunken monks.

© Simon Reynolds

Its just white…

Is that all I can see up there?

Are clouds nothing but white in the air?

As I look and I see,
I smile with glee,

For a small bird has decided to target me…….

in West Bloomfield, MI, US.

Your Face

I saw your face in the clouds one day;
wise, thoughtful and smiling!

I saw you face from far away crossed by a jet’s vapor trail
so what can one say?

An angel, a blessing, a curse or despair?
I know full well that no one will remember or care.

I saw your face in the clouds that vanished into the air,
without a word to say!

© Nick Houvras

in North Carolina, US.

Winter’s Quiet Visitors

Snowflakes
are little bits of clouds
that come down to visit us
one by one.

© Mary Beth Steinhoff

in Tulsa, OK. USA / Halifax, Nova Scotia.

O Cirrus !

In the silence lifting on the breath of heaven
the temporal cirrus and tossing crown
the lowest of heaven’s aspirations
a leaving of royal weaving found

Yet, my heart is drawn upward, cirrus !
while gazing at the fabric torn
high above earth’s unneeded worries
gazing at the beauty worn

The earth in a temporal moment
as if needed be, this day
to cover our lowly aspirations
with a high, directed song
to the eternal blue unending
and accompanying wind, breathing along

The lowest of heaven and the highest of earth
the visible sign of a merry mirth
fortelling of green-giving rain
arising on tomorrow’s wind around
and the ‘just so’ easing of the pain
of the lowly men, here bound

O Cirrus, not loud, nor featureless to man
born to be inspiration’s friend
the flying hope of earth’s highest dreams
and deepest yearnings become known
high, above, where there is no sound
Beautiful, Perfect, Quiet, Alone !

© Kent Turner

TREES?? CLOUDS!!

ONCE UPON A TIME SOMEONE WROTE THAT HE WOULD NEVER SEE A POEM AS LOVELY AS A
TREE. A TREE??
AS FOR ME?? HE DIDN’T LOOK UP HIGH ENOUGH, YOU SEE.
I WILL TAKE A BIG MAJESTIC CUMULUS CLOUD!! YESIREE. IN FLORIDA, JUST GET A
LOUNGE CHAIR- TOO MANY RED ANTS- A GLASS OF ICED TEA, AND RELAX WHILE
WATCHING AN EVER- CHANGING SUPER SHOW FOR FREE!! A CLEAR BLUE SKY? BORING!
AS FOR ME?? LOOK UP. IS THAT A BUNNY? AN ELEPHANT? WAIT A FEW MINUTES- MAYBE
3. THE SHOW CHANGES AGAIN- YOU’LL SEE. LOOK UP- WAY UP. ARE THEY CONTRAILS?
WOW, MUST BE WINDY UP THERE. LOOK HOW THEY ARE CHANGING SHAPE. A TREE?? IS
THAT AN ANVIL WAY UP THERE? ARE THOSE CUMULUS CLOUDS GETTING DARKER? OH ME.
WHAT IS THAT RUMBLING? LIGHTNING! OH GEE. ARE THOSE CLOUDS LINING UP? OH NO-
HURRICANE WARNINGS, POOR ME. DAY 3- WE’RE CLEAR AGAIN- HAPPY!!! OH MY
GOODNESS, WHAT DO I SEE: THE ULTIMATE CLOUD SHOW- A RAINBOW!!! YIPPIE!!

© James Dorow

in Wilmington, Delaware, US.

Kaleidoscope Skies

Billowing clouds go drifting by,
Changing patterns high in the sky;
Languidly sailing an upside-down sea,
Kaleidoscope sky entertainment is free.

On a casual day imagination can run,
Seeing tall crimson ships in a low setting sun;
Pirates dancing on marshmallow rails,
Skull and crossbones tucked in among shadowy sails.

Memories surface of a child long ago,
Laying in meadows and watching the show,
Unfolding like magic on a hot summer’s day,
On atmosphere’s stage in a world far away.

With carefree abandon she swallowed the time,
For sightings of wizards or some other rhyme;
Allowing the creatures to dance in the air,
As she, in her mind, often joined them up there.

How sad life’s too hectic to take just a minute,
To look at a cloud and find something in it;
To see once again, with innocent’s eyes,
The beckoning call of kaleidoscope skies.

© Geraldine M Stephey

The God Box

Clouds,
in a thousand shades of gray and blue,
purple and cream and palest peach,
some rolled long like bats of wool,
others thrusting like tufts of fur plucked upwards,
some clumped like great fistfuls of cottonballs,
others feathered into mare‚s-tails combed thin by the wind,
some spun into smooth sheets of satin,
others still in little rills like waves coming in,
or scalloped like seashells and fishes‚ scales,
all seen in a single sky,
as if God had gotten to the bottom of Her craft-box
and decided to use up all the loose ends at once.

Colors of the Heart

There‚s a kind of hope that lifts your heart
On wings that cannot fray
Like the color of a morning sky
That‚s turning toward the day
There‚s a kind of freedom in the mind
Through which all can be done
Like the color of an eggshell sky
Around a summer sun
There‚s a kind of grief that holds you close
And makes friends with the pain
Like the color of a cloudy sky
That‚s dreaming of the rain
There‚s a kind of dark excitement with
A savage ancient song
Like the color of an autumn sky
Whose winds blow cold and strong
There‚s a kind of vision in the soul
That sees from far to soon
Like the color of a clear night sky
That holds a waning moon
There‚s a kind of fury in the blood
That beats the battle drums
Like the color of a stormy sky
Before the blizzard comes
There‚s a kind of easy peace that takes
You down in sweet repose
Like the color of an evening sky
That‚s shedding all her clothes
There‚s a kind of love that lights your way
Although its time is past
Like the color of a predawn sky
That breaks night‚s hold at last

© Elizabeth Barrette

in Wakefield, West Yorkshire.

The Rain

Nimbostratus in the air,
Never lovely, never fair.
It always gets most people down,
Makes them grumble, makes them frown.

But that is not always the case,
For when that cloud rains on MY face,
I close my eyes and give a smile,
Getting wetter all the while.

I open my arms wide and sing,
Not a care for anything.
As the rain drops onto me,
Not everyone can see,

The true meaning of the rain.
It makes you forget all your pain.
I wouldn’t want to be in a house,
Right now, quiet as a mouse.

Nimbostratus in the air,
Never lovely, never fair.
It always gets most people down,
Makes them grumble, makes them frown.

© Christopher Horner

in Spalding, Lincolnshire, UK.

Realm of the Clouds

You Earth-bound humans, raise your eyes
And see what moves above; around;
When glorious cloud-patterns fill the skies
Why must you gaze on tainted ground?

Intense, unfathomed, glowing blue
Is backdrop to this shifting show.
The clouds in three dimensions move
To fascinate us here below.

And when the blue has left the day
And yielded place to midnight’s black,
How can we see the stars and say
That all has gone to ruin and wrack?

Whatever man has done below
To spoil the pristing purity,
He has not yet dimmed heaven’s bright glow
Or circumscribed infinity.

© Carol Burton

who are 9 years old, and spent each day of a week on a cloud watch, as part of a writing project.

Cloud Watching by Year 4

On Monday the clouds were
Pasted onto the sky
Grey like an elephant’s skin.
A smooth blanket completely covering the sky
Hardly moving, staying steady
Frozen by the Ice Queen’s spell.

On Tuesday the clouds looked like squirty cream on a pale calm sea,
Like cotton wool ripped apart
Like there’d been an earthquake,
Like ice floes on a cold sea.
Sunshine made a lightning through the cracks
Like glitter shining through paper,
Like mini stars in a puff of white smoke.

On Wednesday the clouds were see through like tracing paper,
Spread apart, standing out, making feathered shapes.
The clouds looked like surf breaking on the blues sea,
Sky like a clean swimming pool with frothy bubbles,
Sun, strong and bright making us squint.

On Thursday the clouds were like a bowl of Neapolitan ice cream,
Layered in shades of misty grey.
In the distance a cloud floats like a grey, watery melon.
Sky like a tissue,
Blues escaping from the grey, misty edge.

The end of the week was Friday.
Clouds like distant mountains
Quickly disappeared,
Breaking free behind the houses
Leaving the sky empty like a warm Caribbean sea.

Maleny, Australia.

Clouds

Altocumulus lenticularis with cirrocumulus stratiformis
And cumulonimbus undulatus with nimbostratus radiatus,
And perhaps altostratus duplicatus or cirrocastellanus nebulosus,
Make my translucidus praecipitatio tremble with congestus mediocris.
And if a pileus pannus arcus should calvus with a fractus virga
My vertebratus would duplicatus and my mamma floccus could cirrostratus.
But when a castellanus pannus can incus with a lacunosis,
then stratocumulus perlucidus will spissasus all over arcus velum.
So I think I’ll stay at home today.

© Ian Pollock

Wilmington, Delaware, US.

Kaleidoscope Skies

Billowing clouds go drifting by,
Changing patterns high in the sky;
Languidly sailing an upside-down sea,
Kaleidoscope sky entertainment is free.

On a casual day imagination can run,
Seeing tall crimson ships in a low setting sun;
Pirates dancing on marshmallow rails,
Skull and crossbones tucked in among shadowy sails.

Memories surface of a child long ago,
Laying in meadows and watching the show,
Unfolding like magic on a hot summer’s day,
On atmosphere’s stage in a world far away.

With carefree abandon she swallowed the time,
For sightings of wizards or some other rhyme;
Allowing the creatures to dance in the air,
As she, in her mind, often joined them up there.

How sad life’s too hectic to take just a minute,
To look at a cloud and find something in it;
To see once again, with innocent’s eyes,
The beckoning call of kaleidoscope skies.

© Geraldine M Stephey

Its just white…

Is that all I can see up there?

Are clouds nothing but white in the air?

As I look and I see,
I smile with glee,

For a small bird has decided to target me…

© Sam Stilton

Halifax, UK (‘Home of good old Yorkshire clouds’).

A short poem about clouds

I wandered lonely as a man
Through barren streets and towns
When all at once I saw a cloud
A smile to raise my frowns.
The furrowed brow, the sullen eyes
Sparkled and came alive
When all at once that cloud appeared
Blessed by the divine.

© Darren Harper (Member 5462)

Dallas, Texas, US.

At the sculpture

at the sculpture on a sunday afternoon,
in the dream
of terrell’s square screen,
tending (to feel)
blue

Quantum Cloud looks like a load of blown sticks,
stuck to some bloke
on a hill,
near stoke

like the slag at heron cross,
or near the pub*
in penkhull.

© Duncan Edwards
(11-12-06)

*The Jolly Potters pub.

Cape Hatteras, North Carolina, US.

Waft

A stately puff chattered (as I sat rooted to the shoreline)
until I pulled it down out of the sky into the empty chair
next to mine.
And was surprised at the weight,
how it gathered substance – like a slow-boil cauldron,
in a marvelous struggle of fluid tugs and re-adjustments
as it gathered bulk in the chair.

We watched our kind run up the beach
darkened patch of wave or blistered engine,
and wondered aloud about our kind,
life packed inside skin and not-held vanilla gauze.
We talked of travel and shadows,
of pies and warm currents.

At conversations end – our bubble’s tension over,
we traded parting gifts.
I took in a lavish breath
and felt the cloud cross into blood,
then gave my blood-breath in return
to carry and exchange again
as song or spark.

© Regina Coll

Tring, Hertfordshire, UK.

Clouds for All Seasons

There they float far above our head up in the summer’s sky,
These marshmallow puffs glide effortlessly and seem easy on the eye.

As the seasons roll on and days become shorter,
The chill fills the air and darkness draws longer.

As natures dramatic shift of warm into cold does occur,
No longer shall these clouds be fluff like balls of fur.

Instead the frighteningly ominous sight of darker shapes unfold,
The warmth of the air is dampened by the bitterness of cold.

Roars of thunder and cracks of lightening precede the cascading rain,
Its as if the sky is crying and the sounds are screams of pain.

Lets not forget the times when these grey monsters fill above like an endless blanket sheet,
The air is still, frost bites the grass and nibbles at your feet.

The white flakes descend and flitter past your hat covered head,
Its now time to find your loved one and cosy up in bed.

The many shapes and forms these clouds they do so make,
My love for them is undeniable and most definitely not fake.

So look and admire nature’s marvels that reside up in our atmosphere,
That which stirs the senses of joy and wonder and on the odd occasion fear.

© Sam Long

Vevey, Switzerland.

Mont Pélerin poems above Vevey

Low hanging the clouds
No sky, just grey
Dismal is this another day
……………………..shrouds

Funeral flowers
have withered away
…………………..shortlived

No sun, no sound.
A bell chimes
As in gone-by times…….

…

Steam engine of bygone days
Puffs its clouds across the lake
Disappearing, reappearing.
Reappearing, disappearing.
Mountainous outlines of another age.
Horn blasts out of the fog
Boat slides by on the ripples of the lake.

…

Distant drone of motor cars
Occasional bird call
Rain pattering. Muted
voices, doors opening, closing.
Rain pouring.

Lonely chair
sits looking at lonely view
Empty, cold and wet.
Strange Summer this.

…

Sahara heat baked July
Green fields burnt brown and dry
Farmers harvested in the corn
fearing unexpected thunderstorm

A diamond collier
this cobweb
wet with rain drop pearls
shimmering in the cold grey light

Torrent after torrent
through the darkness of the night
Wake up again to the same sad sight…

…

The summer of the many butterflies
All colours, all sorts
Fluttering here, fluttering there
Accompanying the bees, the wasps,
the hornets too
Who built a nest outside our loo
They buzzed and zoomed and droned
like the villagers who wailed and moaned
Too cold this winter and now too hot
Never satisfied with what they’ve got

…

Another day
Above Vevey
Still and grey –
Still grey.
Where the August blue sky?
The Alpine panorama?
Where the mirrored reflections
in the still water of the lake?
Where have they gone those golden rays
Of long warm Summer days?

…

Grey is not always grey.
Sometimes lacklustre yellow or bilious green.
Or acid blue or shady mauve.

Day is not always day.
Can be night. Or morning.
Hell or heaven.
Short or long or in-between.
Colourful and bright
like a rainbow between earth and sky.
Or shades of metal, icy, hard
sickly hues matching the mood.

© Heather Cameron-Fischer
(Hôtel du Parc, Mont Pèlerin
(Vevey), Suisse, August 2006)