Riding high in the eastern sky
Is a big white fluffy cloud
Like a castle there, up in the air
No visitors allowed.
Looks so much like the skillful touch
Of an artistís steady hand,
Like a peaceful scene inside a dream,
And yet had not been planned.
Changing then by a rising wind,
And the castle drifts away;
Now it has become a dream undone,
And never meant to stay.
Clouds, you see, are a fantasy,
Forming pictures in the mind;
With beauty rare, beyond compare;
But the canvas is unsigned.
© Fay Herridge
Published in Downhome Magazine, Oct 1998