Lying in my garden, looking at a clear blue sky,
I wondered who had all the billowing white eiderdown clouds.
The mountain ones that move as you watch,
as if someone were beneath blowing them with old bellows.
Where I am, they seem to have run out of cotton wool.
Looking skyward as I was about to step inside
to put the kettle on, there they come,
thin wisps of white stringy clouds.
The shortage apparent, stretched by some unseen hand
to fill the blue space, battling with a small supply of cotton wool.
I smiled to myself, as if a child’s thoughts had invaded my mind.
Coffee in hand, I decided to do some work.
More productive than playing silly buggers…