I AM CLOUD.

 

 

I, CLOUD.

 

I am Cloud, the powerful offspring
of water and earth.

Like a blanket I hang under Sun's heat, binding his fire
away from low natures with my cold fleece.

I Cloud am skilled at basking below heaven's blue dome
to nurse sky's ills while
I scan the air carrying blasts of wind for anything
daring to trespass on my line of duty.

I sleep in the restive arms
of hurricanes and wrap snow-storms under my toes.

I am Cloud who hides bolts of lightning
between huge thighs,
who controls every rain-shower and who can send hail's
deluge on all who offend my pride.

Yet I often allow maiden Moon to peep into my bedroom
or break through my roof.

I have to smile too when night-stars play
hide and seek round the edge
of my white flimsy frock and shine like dots of elfish
diamonds when they
find a hole or two in my overcoat pocket.

Sunsets and rainbows induce me to stretch horizontally,
broadening myself in their colourful hues
and if in a good mood after rest, come the morning my
yawn drenches all below me in dew.

Yet I, Cloud can ride in a moment like fury over five
miles of ocean or mountain to strike,
for I am that changeling who cannot die.

I Cloud favour no picnic or beachy summer display
and increase ammunition if me you displease.

I am Cloud who appears out of nowhere with mission
of alchemic alteration.

I can rise like a ghost from clear air
and like a babe from the womb I can, in but a second
let out my genii who bites with forked lightning
all denial of my rightful area.

So beware as I glide past to whom you laugh and try
to blow me away with puffs of foolishness

as if you were my master.