I heard the sky whispering, it used the trees, their tips,
blown by breezes softly, only I could hear, so near,
the dawn was coming soon, to walk the heavens into day,
on tip toe calmly, the air was waiting quiet, expectant,
like the still of those at prayer in a great cathedral of the blue.

A bird stirred in a tree, a dog barked,
swallowed were these sounds that chased off the dark,
dividing like the opening of an exotic flower,
or bower of human vulva, lotus-coloured widening to light,
as in her gossamer gown of pure joy, she trod as if
she trod on water across the ocean blue and white.

Silvered, touched with mysterious magical glow,
as if the sounds of music were translated into colours, subtle,
yet as grand as Turner's painted vast expanses of gold,
old as the stars, this perceived illusion of a day.

Of a sudden all is brilliantly lit,
gloriously flushed with pink,
the growing rhythm of nature pulsing underneath,
breaching the soil to reach up, up to where
it's sustenance is fed, as does all that lives.

Awakened, sounds of dashing small creatures,
birds fluttering and chatting in the eaves,
the hustle and bustle of human beings, shouts of children,
screech of bus and tram, the sky has woken all,
day has dawned, look, look and be part of her act.

As the hours multiply in the mind, the flashes
of the sun god catch all surfaces, caress and warm
stones and lakes, where reflected lies the greatest painting
bequeathed to man, the whole sweep of the heavens is revealed.

Enhanced by the movements of the clouds and stars,
clouds, like galleons floating, exploding into volcanic eruptions
voluptuously puffed, powdery white illusions of shapes,
precipitated feathers of moisture in flux.  

Soon gathering as if summoned by a clan chief
to conspire, to become dark spectres and prepare
to enact an unprecedented drama over our little globe;
forks of fire shoot from these ogres of the sky.

They smite innocent bystanders, defrock trees,
cause chaos, thunderous crashes, the drumming
of a thousand devils let loose, an orchestra
of a hundred instruments makes a cacophony of squeals
and booms, blasts and rattles, a deluge of heavy rain
inundates all with its waters, the beating pulse
from the heart of the universe is heard.

As suddenly as it came, it takes its leave,
petering out to the drip, drip, dripping of every leaf,
the gutters quieten down, the cars slicker their way
along the roads, steam curls up from wooden fences.

As tentative sun rays penetrate the woods,
the sky still reflected as a dulled grey light,
and as slowly as the dawn, the sun seeks to part the clouds
giving them exquisite bright edges that dazzle, we blink
and our hearts beat a little faster as the yellow turns to red,
the red to scarlet, the scarlet to flames of fire.

The fire to a furnace of molten blaze, the firmament
of celestial blue, as a serene backcloth, bears the sunset
on her large plate, the dish that causes all life to exist
is preparing her toilet for the shadows to visit.

Just this part of the ball of beauty we live on,
as fading to pastel, like the dying sound of the howl
of a wolf, the curlews call, the sad lonely sound of a whale,
or the wail of a bagpipe permeating the breeze
of falling night, the canopy, that is our peaceful counterpane,
transforms herself into a dreamed reality,
deep, dark, velvety, sensuously silent, night sky.