Imposing and unstoppable,
they move with silent
speed and grace,
storm morning's
undefended gates
to build and rise,
augment and graze
each other's hoary flanks
as on they glide.
Mythology and heraldry
morph into airy cavalcade -
warhorses ready for the fray;
cloud-leviathans at play;
barges before Actium,
resplendent vessels of the Nile,
sliding past with figureheads
thrust high and arrogant and wide.
I think of convoys, squadrons,
galleons; think of hippopotami,
as volatile, wind-sculpted vapour,
luminously white and grey,
converges on blue plains of day,
manoeuvring to vanquish space
with awesome, fluid, abstract shapes
that mass and then disintegrate.
The clash of Titans yields no flash,
no hollow rumble overhead,
no pain and gore of earth's grim wars,
but scattered beads of rain instead.
Cloud Poem
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2004
Свидетельство о публикации №104041700749
Свидетельство о публикации №104041700749
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