The Thinking Poet



Do you see pictures in clouds,

Some with grey, sun-shaded bellies,

Cotton wool clouds like galleons sailing?


Now I see Punch with hooked nose,

Yet as I watch, the Devil with horns deposes,

So swift the metamorphosis.


Maps materialize:

There’s Mull nudging a fiord coast,

Now Cardigan Bay, LLeyn and Pembroke at crescent’s tips.


And there’s Aladdin’s lamp skimming over trees,

Setting off the ash to catch my sight.

Clouds and their pictures wander as they please.


The sky’s my Aladdin’s cave.

The lamp I rub, my far-faring fancy,

Conjures up a genie for delight.