Clouds

Ever the same white breaks from chameleon
waves, seen always in a different light.
Aerial islands, clouds veer apart
or merge to form a feathery carapace,
all subtleties of white blent with not-white.
They move like thought, creating images then
transmuting them, mere wisps of suggestion
grown to huge flame-shapes, burning ideas.
Low clouds darken as they cross the sun,
each rim an aureole then once more blue vapour.
On the hills, shifting craters of shadow…
Gulls spiral inside a cloud, carry
its brightness outwards. At sunset,
ashes on the horizon cup bronze embers.