The clouds upon my tongue
are rings of light,
that melt to moisture
and the cool gaze
of a bored duenna
on a Mediterranean balcony
against the deeper blue
of sky
imprisoning scattered
cumuli. How I fly here,
this night, with hovering
stars and city lights beneath,
thin patterns and patters
of constellated light
unseen and unsighted,
the moon mirrored
by rings of white light,
pallid moonbows
bursting with the sting
of brilliance against the blue
so deep it seems
black again. How I hover,
the cloud streaming through
the canopy, the ghosted
outlines of my aircraft,
the abstract dreams
and opinions
over the oceans and seas
to another land
of Mediterranean skies.
Phillip Ellis
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-clouds-flying-through-at-altitude/
