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