Ah! The clouds, the clouds. Not a scrap of clear;
brightness spread thin above like margarine;
various smoky forms, urging brethren,
speeding southeast, trailing rain-spit, leer.
Murmur of strawberry moon, honeyed doe,
amber and full, low on the horizon -
hypnotic lure of her deep illusion,
through long slopes of dusk, rolled to pre-dawn glow.
And yet grey Rorschachs speed through more grey.
'Don't let up. Move on; move on. Just maybe
you'll carry the dull cavalcade away.'
Though I'm no child to demand a good show,
nor imagine my will could sway a flea,
with old shanties I'll sing, 'Blow ye winds, blow!'
