The forecasted storms did not materialise
Instead a morning of wild and phenomenal skies
Turner himself could not have painted such colours
Diaghilev himself could not have elucidated such movements
Reds, as true as the blood drawn
By defiant Spanish bullfighters
Blues, as sure as Yves Klein himself
Would have ground from ground
Silvers and whites, as clear and bright
As the most majestic of imagined miraculous visitations
Pinks and greys, both flamboyant and calm
An immense sense of tranquility and stillness
Amongst the highest of transformative energies
A sky formed from infinite layers
As if a thousand deep stage curtains
Each one rolled slightly back
To bring the one in front in view
This then repeated, ad infinitum
Until there at the point of disappearance
A light, a light with all the joys of life in its luminosity
A weightless shining, an emissive source of brilliance
At the very point of brilliance
In the afternoon, on the journey home
Heading south east, looking due west
A length of cloud beyond the grasp of straight on vision
As if a carpet of crumpled white felt was hanging from the stars
An impression of damp felt, with a shower of iridescent droplets
Falling from the universe, towards the mist covered ground
For those on the terra-firma
Immediately beneath the shimmer fine lines of water
They may say "it is no more than a shower”
But to me, these few miles away
It is as if it was the beginning of a spectacular stage show
Perhaps a curtain raiser to Jean Michel Jarre
With all his wondrous projections
