Clouds Clouds unroll like whispers of dreams,

Heavy in layers, drifting slow,

Painting the heavens with breaths of white,

Soft echoes of time, whispering low.

From the wind they gather, murmur and rise,

Gentle like thoughts in a child’s eye,

Each one a canvas, a roaming thought,

Wanderlust-free, under the sky.

A quilt of moisture, brushed from the vale,

Creating horizons that shift and sway,

The clouds are phantoms of far-off lands,

Where poets dwell in night and day.

• John Gould Fletcher