Dark Skies – a storm deciding when to break
Dark skies accumulate greys like threats. They charcoal
The sky, smudge the evening, taunting a watercolourist’s
Palette. Clouds are bruisers, throwing muscular punches
That batter a sky which tries to hoard its light for surreptitious
Glances between these pugilists’ gloves. But they squall
Together again to vent damaged egos, demanding retribution.
Later they brood into darkness, brawlers soft-headed
By too many blows, shifting their overweight bulk to hang
On each other’s necks and shoulders, exhausted by in-fighting.
Sometimes, for me, words and images complement each other in a way that makes the whole greater than the sum of the parts.