There were these beautiful clouds this evening. Unfortunately by the time I unearthed the camera the light had started to fade.
Where do the clouds go when they sail out the west
Their sails on fire with the dying sun?
Do they regret their flaming glory when the darkness falls
And turns their burning orange to soft blue grey,
Pale smudges against the velvet night?
Do they wait for the morning, the silent flotilla,
Riding at anchor with the rising moon
Or taking their bearings from the stars above?
They are always there, massed along the sky’s paling rim
Where night ends and the morning begins,
Waiting to hoist their golden sails of sunlight
And sail beyond the dawn, beyond the night
Where dreams are born in the crucible of light.