I’m tired of these endless high-faluting blue skies—
I want clouds common as whisked egg-whites, or mashed
potatoes on a plate. Clouds that by dusk are the colour
of fish-gutters’ gloves. Wage-earner clouds working
like Lanarkshire bog farmers, or Mongolian horsemen.
I want blue skies to admit their bumbling stewardship
and own up to their enormous cost. I want dissenting
thunderheads with their cloud-to-cloud lightning,
clouds recruited from monsoonal lows and Scotch mist,
clouds circumnavigating the planet then signing up
for Greenpeace. I want clouds to resist the oligarchic
reign of blue and come striding in like men and women
who fling their bodies in protest against the dirt,
then get up praising the wings of birds. Clouds whose
fluffy tops kiss in public, and without embarrassment,
enact the restlessness of the soul inside the body.
Let blue skies stop their rhetorical grandstanding.
We know they’re filled with the breath of men cocked
and fettled by greed. One by one I call the clouds in.
A cloud for each child hungry, ragged, naked. A cloud
for all exiles whose voices can’t find a single raindrop,
whose eyes are stones that out-weather the past.
A cloud for those in war-ravaged places where shadows
terrorise doorways, and the old live between rubble
and crumbled bread. Blue skies will break the windows
of your house; they will offer you their emptiness
and your life at a knock-down price, their lips will pronounce
only names written in expensive ink. Let the clouds
come and cross over each other in a gust of wind, scrubbing
away the ubiquitous azure that remembers nothing
except the value of the moon’s silverware
and the silken dreams of dictators and their priests.
In the distance two clouds are touching, twisting
into a lintel of sanctuary where the blue can’t trespass.
I want clouds thick as laundry, soaking under stars
that wash away spilled blood. Handkerchief-clouds
waving fondly as we drive off towards fields, waterfalls
and laughter, sick of counting the cerulean jewels
on the ocean. Blue skies rebuke all who come down
from the burning mountains, those who believe
in snowflakes, rainforests and in the scorpion’s sting,
who know the heat calving the glaciers is as convincing
as pain. A good cloud will precipitate the deepest
source of our moral passion, our principal wisdom,
and our affection for those who argue with the dust.
Poem
Clouds
Judith Beveridge