Split colours curve in the face of heaven.
Daylight under grey cloud remains colourless
The world, wet beneath it, glistens
Like recollected sky.
Wind sounds out the trees
And hollow places,
Fluting the last stems of winter.
Seedheads rattle with the squall
As spattered drops cut the air
Like liquid blades.
Sharp against a black horizon
Where storm edge meets the hill
A stand of woodland comes alive
In the cloudbreak gleaming.
Far on trailing rags of cloud
Comes a torn blue shred
A piece of sky where sun remains.
© BH 2014
My head's full of weather. As you might expect. I'm always taken by how light moves through the world and when, in rain, the sky lets the rain do its work in secret. Pools and surfaces keep the remains of it while cloud leans over us threatening darkness, bundling it up in the hems of cloud the latest front is carrying. Then the fabric rips and blue for a moment reminds us. How transitory.
