Blue Among a Map of Clouds
By Jill Jones
Sunny — picking through
things on the ground
of what’s left here and above
Cloudy indecision —
rain up there doing a maybe
The warm dirt is full of life
The green bin is full of life
Hazy blue as if
somewhere
clouds want to appear
closer
Walking home
we see a small dead raptor
on a roof
its wings wave in the strong breeze —
flying while dead
When clouds call out they say
nothing — in them rain breath
unfinished sentences — nothing’s secure
But it’s beautiful like swimming
through blue
I keep sniffing downpour
but sunlight clashes in like a clown
confusing me
The bus stops and starts
as though it’s spring weather
done and always undoing
Old roof lines
fluffy cumulus —
ancient sea renewing itself
Horsetails and whispers to the north
Overcast —
picking through things on the ground —
come, let’s look up as well as down
The cold’s complaining
a parrot’s complaining the length of the block
The bus is always complaining —
everything you read
Someone wants to take on the bus driver
it’s not his fault : it’s no-one’s fault
it’s everyone’s fault —
At least we’re given clouds today
at least they’re not dead yet
Inside the air’s happy
outside it’s a grey old veil —
both of these conditions are real
Dark clouds to the north-east —
the last two days have been
a struggle with weariness
Do clouds struggle —
Maybe I collect too many syllables
or set up more unfinished
sentences closer to clouds or rain
the rain I hear falling on the glass roof —
that sharpened clutter : that rush
more like sound effects
than ‘the real thing’
pooling on the forecourt —
people and doors hesitate
Houses seem done
and undone
lakes spread on vacant allotments
as if becoming
The ravens are around again
What else is around — a swirl
of clouds — traffic hovering
thought of sleep in the midst
of day — the reality of waking
at 3am — the planet’s fire : the planet’s ice
No wonder I lean on the fence
as if it’s the place to be
as if it will come back —
The moon pushes towards the full —
is it simply a relic of the old tide
moving beneath my skin
By nightfall I’m expansive
along the footpath there’s an overflow
— remnants of trees and possibly sky — dogs
are active along fences or at a gate
Everything seems welcome —
each twig looks like it just got here
ready for all the other twigs and seeds —
soon more things will fall
Full moon — penumbral eclipse
surrounded by clouds
Night notches the sky’s farness
ancient and future strife in its eye
Here’s the wet dark of things —
every cold drop on my skin —
I can’t quite catch what it tastes of
Note: Most of the sky/weather observations in this poem are from a 2021 diary