Whipped creams,
Or God’s dreams?
High above the ground,
Hovering without sound.
Soared only by planes,
Or extremely high cranes.
A source of wonder for the young,
From places far flung,
But united in their joy derived,
From this white blanket knived
By blue or black sections
Depending on the suns projections.
Providing rain, sleet and snow
To all those below
Along with delight
To all those in sight.

© Stephen Casey