plump and young, the cloud
is born on the horizon
and absorbs the oceans,
and grows,
and grows.
The cloud, pale at birth,
becomes a soft shade of grey,
and absorbs small neighbouring clouds,
whilst larger ones cling to it like monkeys
with delicate but firm fingers. They create
the likes of weird gangling limbs dangling
gently from some parts,
jutting out awkwardly from others.
the cloud, with its eerily swaying limbs and
children in its womb,
grows in thirst. it begins to roll
rather than drift,
its great creaking limbs tucked in
to become indistinguishable
from the body.
maturing still, the cloud
rolls heavily over shivering
trees. The great orb
that is the sun is shrouded
by the darkening and growing,
a tumour in the sky,
swirling with increasing fervor.
The sky is a sieve; the funnel-shaped
cloud crouching like a predator
above beggar trees
collects the sand sifted by the air
and lets it accumulate, still
darkening and thickening until,
finally, desperately, the stopper
is wrenched free
and the sand pours onto the thirsting trees
and the cloud shrinks and thins into a flimsy
mosquito net that the wind picks up
and plays with.
soon, its wispy remains will dissolve into the watery sky.
