Beverley, Mon 23rd July 2018
Clouds travel the sky
Like floating pilgrims,
Not pushy or driven
Or having something to prove.
They just move, effortlessly,
Serenely free
And full of grace.
The shapes they make can be
Whatever they want to be:
Sharp moments of majesty
Or muddles of mist,
They never insist
On being any one thing.
They dance and then they sing
And then they scatter
And it doesn’t matter.
Their’s is the whole wealth of the sky
An endless playground
To discover
One day after the other,
After the other, after the other,
After the other, after the other….