sometimes i look at the sky
when driving, at speed
and I
see the clouds billow and fold 
an angry riposte at the audacity
of open miles
sometimes thick and black
they tumble
sometimes less afraid
they swoop a palette knife 
full of paint
and accentuate themselves with white tipped
curvature 
like waves in a torrent.
sometimes i look at the sky
and in the picks of rich umber and the red of a dying sun
it is the only place we have in common
somewhere promising
to come.
and you see it too
when the light shafts through
and you wonder whether it is a waterfall
and feel small enough to ask
i suggest that light cries the same way as water.

Sometimes the road promises to take us there
with love and money 
chasing buttterflies, and fools gold.
the road around us takes us past those hoards of fortune
of the few who keep it covered
from the ruin of the dew.
an i make plans to steal it all with you
and live in the window
of the rich
in their converted barn and drive their porsche car
and be generous to let you drive it too.
the road without you only takes me home
and there the ceiling is probably much the same as yours
when i look at it 
its just oppressive
like the things that stop us
reaching through the
distance
contained in a slab of blank white
and i wonder what you think about the night
when the sky has retired
its compulsions
of the day
and the heavy blues of midnight seep 
the promises i made 
to 
keep away.