Clouds
Silver'd whisps,
diaphanous, floating 'neath
the ether, flying high like
prophesies from God.
Black forbidding masses
rumbling out their message,
jagged bolts of lightning
rend the air.
Innocuous or deadly,
oft they're in disguise;
it would behoove us all
to heed the skies.
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2009
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