Another 100 random words to play with. My poem follows.
The clouds are scattered long since,
promises of rain unfulfilled
no plums on the wild trees, no cherries
and apple trees brown and autumn-dry.
Something soars with the heron
through the harsh bronze light,
with steady wing beats, grey as clouds
from a heavy sea. Hope perhaps.
I dream of deep pools, cool weed-tangle,
where silver fish flick their tails
jack-knifing the gloom and filling it
with the soft glitter of moonlight.