The clouds are shifting, purposeful,
Moved by the chilling bidding
Of the skeltering wind.
Gust and lull and flow and wrack
And wrapping plastic rustling
As winding sinuous between stacks
Of dripping lumber without resting.
The sky lives as bottomless blue,
In sorrowful hue
To chase the running through of the colding days,
Racing ever around in a hunt for the tail of the spring,
Going down in a tramping slew
Bold to greet the Cold Solstice.