Clouds

"A revolution; a time for change. And brother, it has taken far too long to arrive!" - Allen Ansell



I looked out of the window.
The sky had a strange appearance;
above was an ominous grey cloud
that stretched from the east to the west –
as far as the eye could see.
It had a straight, but fuzzy edge –
like an advancing wave –
and beyond that, ahead,
towards the never ending north,
was blue, blue sky.
I wondered if it was a mirror of my life?
Of where we are going?

Sometimes, there is just such a boundary
between love and hate,
sadness and happiness,
light and dark.
In the coming of the night,
when the sun slips lower and lower
behind the threatening rain-clouds,
and then, briefly, lights up your life
from that tiny gap near the horizon,
before descending, finally,
in magnificent redness…
Those brilliant moments
can be worth a lifetime of tears.

Once, I watched such a sunset;
watched the sun’s magnificent
and defiant farewell display.
Spilling, first, impossible blue-pink edges to the clouds.
Sky-Blue-Pink we named it…
And then, with linear advance,
deepening the blend of red until,
like blood smeared over cloudy mountains,
it was torn away,
to fresher pastures;
into other people’s lives.

In the umbra of that moment,
with the colour of your skin
exaggerated by its redness,
I saw again that I loved you.
And in the rouge reflection in your eyes
there was nothing but beauty;
on your blooded lips,
nothing but sweet softness.
In your words, nothing but truth.

And then, when the sun had disappeared,
and we were left in the greying twilight,
left beneath that dark grey cloud …
I sensed her presence.

She, who paints the trompe l’oeil
of the friendly mother-in-law
onto her crocodile’s snout.
She with the fire-lit eyes
and the burning passion of hatred.
Her overpowering, oppressive, weighty cloud
pressing down upon our love,
and like that cloud’s edge, through the window,
a wave, waiting to douse the flames
of our passion and our love.
A wedge waiting for a niche
into which to be driven.

We were young enough to disregard;
to brush away the bitter words,
the jibes, the cutting remarks,
the interference, the disharmony,
the arguments, the ‘show offs’.
Yet, did we?
For her presence was unbroken,
her ever present need unspoken
but shown in acrid plumes of smoke
that arose from behind us,
spat from narrow jealous lips,
and hammered in by her beak -
like a tattooist’s pen
tap, tap, tapping
into our irritated flesh.

She is even less subtle now:
Age may appear, at times,
to have mellowed her attacks,
but then again, she speaks:
to make hideous noises about you;
veiled remarks, accusations;
pulls faces behind your back.
Grants you unrequested,
and undeserved, rites of a slave.
Lies with accustomed ease,
stabs with practiced pecks,
and blindly turns a son’s love to dust.

Out of the window I see
the grey cloud rolling back;
exposing more northern sky.
Having passed the border
between the grey cloud and the blue sky,
I am tearing myself away from her.
I am freeing you and I.
After all these years, finally ceasing
to turn the fabled,
and very bruised, cheek once more.

Her apron strings are severed,
and hang, useless, from her hands.
I have finally found the justification
and the strength,
to turn the key that opens up the cage,
and together we are free to fly
under that bright and blue, blue sky,
that extends onwards
in all directions,
forever.


© Allen Ansell 2006, 2023