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Mardi May AUSTRALIA
THE MAN WHO READ SKIES
My father read skies daily deciphering the message of clouds, plotting the fickle journey of weather like a traveler, map open.
He searched for clues hidden in the spheres, atmo, tropo and strato; he knew their names like old friends and family.
‘Clouds are for artists,’ he said, brush in hand above a sky-washed canvas, then billowed clouds like spinnakers on windy seas.
A fisherman at heart, he liked nothing better than a mackerel sky, a mottled, scaly fish skin sky swimming with imagination, the big one that got away.
He carried a coat when nimbus piled anvil-sharp warnings on his comfort of cumulus, and when the racing wind rode high, his mare’s tails streaked across the sky.
© Copyright, 2013,
Mardi May. |
