Clouds Poem by Conor Dowd

Clouds



We watch a cloud balloon into the likeness of a whale,
a comet, or the tail
od something large and quite ferocious.
Your eyes are wide, surprised, your face asks why...
so I'll tell you a tale of the sky.

You put your hand in mine as we walk along the road
and take our time.

So the paintbrush of our minds
let fly upon the sky
a million different possibilities of how and why.

Wisps of cirrus clouds are sketchings in the upper air,
like rarified phenomena, leaving footprints there.
The highest type of cloud,
cirrus loiter in the highest portion of the sky and fly too fast for sight.
And it's cold up there -
their silence broken only by the path of planes,
their contrails stretching far, producing rain.

Stratus,
flat and level-headed, stand guard against the earth and sky,
stand solemly like soldiers in a line,
like sentinels just keeping time.
They are often gray but never unexpected,
not today.

Cumulous,
tumultuous and reeling on the summer sky
like candyfloss creations of our mind
that float like childrens' kites, delirious,
like question-marks across the sky.

In tales of Greece a legend spoke of Zeus,
the god of gods, old but always ageless...
how he fell in love with love
in the image of a girl called Io,
transformed into a cloud and covered her like fire.

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