Clouds are not really white, or grey, or pink –
they are a mix of all the light put into them,
(I read somewhere).
I saw a cloud above the bay,
a dazzling iridescence of such brightness
it hurt my eyes to look for long.
I wondered, then, if you were up there,
(the random ’there’ where we put all our loved ones),
because surely only pure light would mark your place.
Perhaps you looked down, at that moment,
and saw your family,
and recognised us despite the years
and shone your message,
onto the pummelled pewter sheet before us
and perhaps you said
look up, at this shining cloud,
and know that I know I was loved
and I would say
how long have I waited for that message?
Three score years is less than
a raindrop in an ocean of loss.
An amble around West Bay the other day with my eldest son and husband found us looking at a striking cloud, shining over the sea. With the sun behind it the cloud was quite dazzling, as was the reflected light on the water below.
Writing Whatnots 