I wrote at noon — till few seconds before
I was staring at such a spectacular manifestation
of clouds’ morphing in their vivid own life —
I shifted my gaze over to the landscape outside
my bedroom’s window which looks towards north-east.
I really saw something magic — a very form
of life made of steam and air in the sky.
It’s moving slowly but its furtherance was
clearly visible, appreciable — what was it?
A single autonomous storm that was travelling on its skyway.
An indipendent organism of pulsating steam:
white and sharp in the front-end with subtle aerial tentacles
of nearly immaterial whiteness — dark grey and dense
in the back-end where a real propeller, an airscrew
of atmospheric proportion’s rotating regularly
in a geometry of vaporous and thick blades.
A vessel of clouds navigating along routes of highness and open space.
It proceeded in its flyabout disturbed by neither other clouds nor winds,
by neither mountains that rise and cover the eastern horizon nor the city’s skyline.
It had its own well-drawn profile, contours easy to focus with the naked-eye.
I’ve followed this sailing airship up to its disappearing
into the indistinct canvas of fading grey steam in the long distance.
It has kept his well-refined and recognizable shape — always.
A journeyer, perhaps a visitor (i do suppose), from a clouds’ realm…
© Esteban HH Trillo