A flotilla of ships in grey and cream
Are the clouds I see in a waking dream
When I lie on my back so contentedly
To gaze at a sky like an upturned sea.
So, over the hills far and wide
Drifts along on an endless tide
Tankers, smacks and a tiny trow
Off to a different here and now.
Where others might see a billowing galleon
A stretched cat or a rearing stallion
But I hear the clock strike twice in the hall
And I sleep – that’s all.
© Huw Parsons 14 July, 2014