The cloud creeps down the mountainside
Belly to the ground, as though sniffing its prey.
Nothing is sacred; nothing is safe
From the cold, damp fogginess of its intrusion,
Penetrating every crack and crevice;
A pervading darkness and dankness.
The warm air holds its breath, prescient
Of its obliteration, as it capitulates
To condensation and the first drizzle
Transpires as from the ground
Precipitating a cold and vicious,
Slapping rain, that soaks to the core.
For now, the cloud has won, but we shall
Look for the sun and the rainbow to come.
Poem and photo copyright Englepip©