CLOUDS

The sky is grey and very wet and clouds conceal the sun,

We only have one nearby star, clouds cover up that one,

And they are not impressive clouds just weak grey little things,

It’s cold enough without them but with them the coldness stings.

I don’t know just what type they are but they are pretty bland,

Not cumulo or nimbus and not tall and white and grand,

They come here in their numbers with all of their water vapour,

They have the personality of shreds of thin rice paper.

They are not in the stratosphere that’s much too high for them,

I think they’re in the dullosphere, a place I would condemn,

My daily walk is on grey footpath, I don’t need grey skies,

Everything seems grey this time of year, I don’t know why.

Where are those climate protesters who hose things down with orange?

I guess that they are using something grey, like old cold porridge,

I need some colour, my cone cells are there for just that reason,

Or should they put their feet up and then sleep for the whole season?

And what about my cortex? Much of it processes sight,

I’m sure it likes some variation in the kind of light,

Imagine if the Big Bang had been grey right from the start,

We’d have grey stars, grey galaxies, and nebulae like farts.

I wonder if the universe might wear grey underpants,

Within the bulging pocket in the front the stars could dance,

But then of course you’d need to keep the underpants quite clean,

I just cannot imagine such a huge washing machine.