A wise soul once said- clouds will bring rain,
Or was that just science?
Pardon me, I forget.
Either way, it hasn't always turned out to be true.
I've seen cotton furls of all sorts unfurl in the sky-
The whites that accompanied a clear day,
The greys that forebode anything I dared to say,
The solid wads that rested as I flew past 10,000 miles above the sea,
The blacks that thundered and groaned that the heavens would open up any moment, carefree.
But despite the clouds, it didn't always rain,
Sometimes the black ones have just done a brief pantomime, and vanished without a chain.
Sometimes the white ones have spectated upon a gale, the clear blue skies nowhere to be seen.
But perhaps, it is this unpredictability that makes me want cotton in my skies- the tenterhooks of what could have been...