Sky, The.

The sky

goes by

at an alarming rate of knots –

or it barely moves.

It seems to be running with flame-clad hooves,

or hooves of lead encased in clay.

The sky might be in a hurry one blowy day,

then loitering upon a corner the next.

It leaves me vexed to see it changeable so:

should it stay?

or should it go?

The sky is full of many things:

clouds, and the Sun, birds and planes

that spread their wings

and fly away;

midges that cluster around me,

for an anytime feast.

And the sky is all around,

in every single direction, to say the least,

wrapping us in its frail cocoon.

And best of all, up in the sky,

is the character of our own sweet Moon.

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