There is a drawing I did as a child of clouds 

round and white,

and then I began to see their silent majesty.

—

Today, they’re greys and whites, tracked with

tractor tyres and old bones

softened with pastels and sheep’s wool.

—-

They make no sound as they trail across the sky,

quietly changing the heavens 

mirrored in the colours of the ocean and hillside lakes.

—

In the evening they dim the rainbow with crimson,

gold, orange, yellow with puce,

mixing and mingling, glowing with grace.

—-

Early, they catch the sun’s rays and waken the sleeping

with pretty pinks and hues, 

that brighten a weary world for a morning of peace.

—-

Clouds silent as angels of light float by.

Feathered birds flying over the seas,

Towering mountains. Roiling, night black on the horizon.

—-

Howling winds rage and they learn to race,

blackening the skies,

torn by sun bright lightening,  shaking the world with storms.

—-

Clouds bringing drizzling days, heavy and lowering, 

soaking the thirsty earth.

so many shapes and strange stories from afar.

—-

A snowflake is unique in its birthing,

as singular are clouds.

We change as we watch them for Grace is there.