Skyward

The 6am air is cool on my bare shins

they say it will be very warm later.

I’m watching vapour trails, whilst

reclining on the deck, still wet 

from my early morning watering up 

damping down before the heat builds.

On high the white trails gorge and bloat

from sleek steel razor-sharp zips

into obese scaled serpents

that writhe before fragmenting 

into vaporous threadbare islands 

that sink beneath the blue cloth.

Fearing the expected heat, 

a quiet commotion of wispy

thin clouds scud across

the backdrop, smearing

the perfect blue like

poorly cleaned windowpanes

before waving the white flag

of surrender.

With my head in the clouds 

and my feet on bare earth

muesli fruit and black coffee, help

to counteract last night’s wine,

all serenaded by All Saints’

clanking call to the faithful,

reminiscent of a Tuscan hillside.

On second thoughts

I think the forecasters might

be wrong about today’s weather,

someone’s already making a mess

with the Windolene again.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 07/22