The clouds are different here.
They lay low,
Blanket the land in woolen softness like a bed
That makes itself.
They invite a lie down
A cup of tea
A rest.
A quick little, harmless moment of peace
Before you sink to life below.
They’re not grand
Like back west where others of their kind
Climb mountains and challenge them their height.
Then make their own mountains of
Vexation and wrath.
They comb low fields and hang in valleys
Concealing nature as she changes.
They threaten, a lot
Like a gang that rolls into town and
Stares you down as you feel
The hot
Heavy
Breath of theirs on your neck.
No, here they sprawl
And spread
Like a stretching cat on a radiator.
Like an old lumpy blanket
That won’t get thrown away.
They groan with a familiar complaint
But a comfortable one
‘It’s rather grey today’.
They hug you to protect
That fair fair skin from the sun;
It’s too harsh for you.
They deliver a watering to your allotment
And hang droplets in the air to remind you
Maybe you need watering too.
Yes the clouds are very different here.
They tuck the cities into bed
And hide their jewels from the eyes above.
“If you must see them,
You must come down”.
They’re painted on the horizon
A folly to hide the tube.
“If you must see this
You must accept it all”
The coziest shade of grey
Is the one on the ceiling.
On Tuesdays 