On Clouds Poem by Etienne Charilaou

When I look at a cloud I see
something that smacks of improbability.
How can this cloud be?
Yet it's there for all to see.
To one blind from birth
to describe a cloud may be
a project of some worth.
Cotton balls are round, white and fuzzy
but I think it's plain,
it's as insane as describing the smell of rain
to one without the sense of smell.

When I look at clouds I see
the clouds captured in paintings remarkably.
To imagine angels languid on these couches
does not surprise me.
Water vapour, perhaps ice and snow, is all they are
Science has told but the artist is always more bold.
That's why some see an image of heaven
displayed on this poor Earth.

To see odd shapes in clouds
brings many a degree of mirth.
A more pleasant pastime
would be hard to find,
especially if shared through lovers' eyes.

The clouds gather light and reflect it
colouring things warmly here below,
putting on an amazing light show,
especially at dawn or at the sun's set.

In short, I love clouds as much as I love trees,
as much as I love anything you please.