Fresh Vistas

'At last he rose, and twitch’d his mantle blue'
                                                          —John Milton, Lycidas
 
In the lower left-hand corner
of the azure sky, the clouds,
like mutant logs, flattened
in six wrong places, crowds
all hacked off, wispy, wizened,
trailing celestial ink,
thud and scud along
like boozers out for a drink.
 
Time to unpack the new clouds,
pluck the seeds from the shed,
trucking them out to the fields
to give youth a chance instead.
Like shy spring lambs, they scamper
into the stratosphere
to grow and mate and circulate
Until the next cirri appear.

David Galef

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  David Galef would be pleased to hear them.