The Other Eight Clouds

The first cloud is shades of black and blue, heavy, looming, claustrophobic. It fizzes with electricity, approaches, ready to fill the space, to thunder and pour – to flood until all not nailed down is washed away, leaving;

The second cloud. Light, hard to discern, tentative tendril fingers, probing. This cloud drifts, without purpose, enjoying the warmth of the sun’s rays which it deigns to allow to pass. Soon it drifts too high and is lost to sight.

In pushes the next, a wide sheet of ripples that tremors and flinches, ghostly, wispy, dissolving…

In its wake herds of fluffy, bulbous, purest white with highlights of optimistic blue and bouncy pockets. They jiggle and jostle across the invisible stars.

The sky is vacant for a breather, hollow pale. A blanket of grey becomes manifests, low to the earthy ground, swamping, lines indistinct. Swept away in a flash by,

Swooping, unknowable mists. Inverted mountain ranges, or beads and bulbs in berry bunches. They hover, distinct tableaus tone instant, nonexistent the next.

In the wake slide in long flat discs of dark salmon pink, charcoal underbellies smears of ash. Tight in formation they reel and line up in judgement.

Before the final cloud comes the eighth – plumes of almost solid matter, rolling, heaving, overwhelming. A physical force that engulfs, bright blinding white light to lift and cocoon.

Nothing left but-

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