Poetry
CLOUD FORMS
When, from the water’s quiet mirror, A mist floats off like a carpet And the moon, wrapped in its undulations, Revels in its haunted, haunting play, Then we are pleased as children; Watching it lift up the mountain, Deepen and then spread, Bar after bar, to become the sort Of lowering sky that can go either way: Soak us or pass on, overhead. And if from there it should be raised Up to a thinner atmosphere How firmly based, how crisp it seems, Towering, gathering all its splendour For a proclamation on the plenitude of power (Since what we fear may well be our fate). We tremble in the shadow of its threatening. Say it climbs higher still; The threat now utterly removed Into a heavenly lightness, A mere something there that dissolves Ever so softly; less than a patter of fleeces Moving, deliciously combed, Upwards from below, towards Their Shepherd, into his lap and hand. Yet all must be brought down By the weight of our world. Pierced, when dense and very large, The stack must thunderously Discharge, as armies do that roll out In splendid array only to disintegrate; The earth then receiving their remains. But keep the eye on where it frays, Describing what comes down while feeling That it’s upwards we should always gaze. After Goethe – stratus, cumulus, cirrus, nimbus HOMAGE TO HOWARD Holy mountain, realm of seem. Goaded by a breeze, it sways, As if some flimsy palanquin Whose gathered gauzes drift apart. It glories in continuous metamorphosis, Now immobile, now a dream: Can you see it and believe your eyes? Trust to the strength of your own projection, Choosing to define, while the indefinite Ramps a lion or unfurls an elephant Or turns a camel’s neck into a Jabberwock – Until the army of barmy Images wrecks itself on a rock. The trumpeter heralds his own dissolution Well before a judgement can be sounded. Yet Howard gave us an instrument For getting the airborne grounded By latching on to the gone, and firming up The ephemeral. He was the first to hold it fast By naming drifts, compactions, Dispersals and descents, For which the planet offers thanks. Luke Howard, Namer of Clouds (1772 – 1864) – after Goethe Anthony Howell |
At least we’ll have clouds
We don’t often gaze at clouds. We look at the sky, but that’s different. Maybe a helicopter, even a comet – Something exciting or noisy. Instead we stare at our phones. Clouds are always changing In colour, shape and direction. They meander, they drift, They amble, they race. The fast almost cover the slow. There’s always something in decline: Loss of meadows and trees; Loss of ice caps and species; While nothing much is gained, Except concrete and plastic. But we’ll always have clouds. Elizabeth Adams |