Milky cirrus slowly spoil the blue.
Beneath, a gentle, chill, foggy air,
caressing breezes brush our concrete honeycomb.
Behind portrait windows, we forget our nature there.
~
Dazzling white, dull grey, and darker down,
clouds falling weight toward the buzzing ground,
branches lift upon the hills where horses stare.
Rectangles light our faces, a landscape without sound.
~
Light drops, sky darkens, soft, electric light,
an angry horn, a walker jumps and frowns,
hardly reaching our muffled conscious, within our block,
a thousand workers, in a thousand buildings, in a thousand grotty towns.
~
With one dusty cider, beneath a distant tree,
a tired bike leaning in its mellow shade.
Soaking in a balmy air,
one man remembers, there,
as shadows fade.
~
Beneath the globe, a tropic night, a heavy ocean,
where dark fish glide through swirling tides and shimmer
briefly, slipping to the deep
below, beyond the faint stars’ wavering glimmer,
where mountains of water shift in cold and silent motion.
~
Morning. Light.
Shells. Crabs. Sand.
Warmth. Colours. Splendour. Blues.
Pacific waves, dark walls, white splashing hues.
Unseen? To come? Gone? Empty, empty land.
~
Towering clouds stretch to the stratosphere,
where splashing rain has washed away the grey.
Drinking sunshine, touching wind, with watery eyes,
people laugh and shout, and are swept with the leaves in disarray.
~
Buildings proud, and clean, and strong, and tall,
turning eyes see all, and all anew,
fresh trees waving, waters dancing, voices sparkling,
a rainbow in a raindrop, iridescence in the dew.
~
Three hundred swimmers lined up on the sand,
the signal goes, we charge into the sea,
thrumming voices, icy, scintillating high.
And as I drift upon my back, I gaze into the sky.
I know, when grey skies come, I’ll know it’s fine, no longer wondering why.
Nicholas Rowe Poetry 