Dark Skies – a storm deciding when to break


Dark skies accumulate greys like threats. They charcoal

The sky, smudge the evening, taunting a watercolourist’s

Palette. Clouds are bruisers, throwing muscular punches

That batter a sky which tries to hoard its light for surreptitious

Glances between these pugilists’ gloves. But they squall

Together again to vent damaged egos, demanding retribution.


Later they brood into darkness, brawlers soft-headed

By too many blows, shifting their overweight bulk to hang

On each other’s necks and shoulders, exhausted by in-fighting.


Sometimes, for me, words and images complement each other in a way that makes the whole greater than the sum of the parts.