Below me, a bank of clouds,
A deceptively solid mass,
As with mobs, and moving crowds
It has no guide or compass.
As if driven by its changing shape,
It drifts beyond itself,
As one amorphous cloudscape,
on its way to somewhere else.
With dissolving definition,
It balloons in to a form,
With potential recognition,
As an agitated storm
. What’s coming? … a dull day … humourless,
. What’s gathering? … cumulous.
© Tim Grace, 13 November 2010
To the reader: As terrestrial beings, humans are not often treated to a topside view of clouds. But the occasional flight provides an elevated view of these gaseous textured masterpieces of shape and form. As a natural consequence of rising damp, clouds are in constant manufacture; evolving, transforming, swelling and collapsing … wisping away to nothing, condensing into something.
To the poet: The achievement in this sonnet comes from its ‘amorphous’ shape and form. The poem’s ‘text’ure is wordy and a little verbose. References to airborne masses float across the lines. Black and white statements are smudged forming grey illusions that drift into one and other with uncertain consequence; if not a clash then to juxtapose.