The Weatherkeeper’s Diary

The Welsh word for sun means “a bright cloud”.

On Tuesday, mists unravelled through the valley
I sat in the doorway rewinding cloud skeins
(fairly patiently,)
until I could see as far as the fir trees and the stream.

The chests along the landing need re-labelling.
I went to get some flattened cumulus
and out came fold after fold of herringbone instead
before I knew where I was
the sky was full of it.

Just a glimpse, today.

I don’t understand why people say skies are grey,
as if that’s all there was to it,
when there are thirty greys at least.
Some people distinguish grey and gray.
Maybe we need thirty vowels
to fit between gray, grey, and griseous.

It’s funny how I forget about edges.

This morning, early, the sound of singing rain
down by the water
and then afterwards the smell,
where the earth had been drinking
and all the world a-glint in new-washed green.

I hardly ever need to use the broom
some days I could forget it
but today it lies against the kitchen wall
casting significant shadows.

Enough for a whole tempest coils small enough to fit in an egg-cup!

Lonely, how could I be lonely
with all of this to keep me company?
Except sometimes I miss conversation.

Why is it always Mondays that the breezes get away?
I’m worn out from cramming them back in
and still they won’t lie quiet
they’re rustling and creeping through the cracks.

And the light came through.

12th June 2010