Clouds by Hannah Walker (17)

Pistachio green cardigans invite seated contemplation.

Spread out on the grass,

the colours clashing like infant siblings.

Sitting down gently,

the cold of the ground

seeps up through my clothes.

Sitting,

perfectly arranged,

so that arms and body

form a triangle

with the ground.

Sitting,

breathing,

wondering.

Leaning, until I’m lying flat on my back.

Like a starfish,

or someone who thinks snow angels are possible

even in the middle of summer.

The cardigan doesn’t cover all the ground;

grass tickles the soft insides of knees.

The weight of me connects with the ground.

At head,

shoulders,

spine,

heels.

It’s a cold, reassuring presence,

firm against the small of my back.

The air is warm and moist.

A humid wind has risen up in the last few hours.

It flies about,

caressing the oaks’ weary fingers.

An acorn plops to the ground.

Warm humid wind and soft curling hair,

brushes against pale cheeks.

Some considerate city planner from eons passed

placed the trees

perfectly.

Far enough apart so as to allow

sky to slice through

ever moving leaves,

but not so far that the world feels naked and barren

without its arboreal shield.

The seasons have finally made up their minds;

lush greens of a long wet summer

slowly reveal their bloodied copper edges.

In a month or so

leaves will lose their grip on branches

and fall,

delicate in death,

to the ground.

The sky is magnificently blue.

Some forgotten deity

has spilled all their soap suds over the expanse.

They stagger across the stage.

Lying here,

tiny and insignificant,

I watch with the trees.

All are watching the clouds

as they crawl,

slowly

tantalisingly,

over the edge of the world.

Others skip through the sky,

like newly blossoming children.

They play like young cattle dogs,

behind the branches of trees

and back again.

Constantly hiding, teasing and emerging.

They scuttle around

like people

alighting from a morning train to Wynyard.

Cool grass,

warm sky,

soft breath.

The clouds scamper about,

hurrying through the heavens,

completely unaware of their earthly audience.

The trees,

the grass,

and me,

we sit and ponder the clouds.