Could it be, I sometimes
that clouds kiss when I hear thunder,
that their lust is seen in flashes
with the lightning and the crashes?
And when hail lands on my head,
are they throwing from their bed
evening dresses, pin-striped suits,
stockings, high-heels, socks and boots?
And I wonder, when it rains,
whether clouds are cleaning stains
left behind between the sheets
where they whispered sweet deceits.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Geertjan Wielenga would be pleased to hear from you.