Apologies to Wordsworth.

Apologies to Wordsworth.

Alone or not,

My mind wanders,

The clouds march

Or drift by,

Slowly

Dependent on the wind

For their right of way.

The higher cirrus clouds

Are heavy with ice

Even as they seem

To float, lighter than a feather

They travel at a different pace

To get to where they

Need to be.

There are few nimbus clouds

The rain is not falling

Here today.

None of us

Admit to being lonely,

There are no stopovers.

We pass on by

Barely making an impression

Or reciprocal acquaintance

As in passing,

We remain

Detached.

Whilst not so very far

From one another,

The proximity

Does nothing for our mutual

Understanding.

The silence, inescapable

Every whisper

The sound

Of our own thoughts.

We are all prisoners

Of circumstance.

The clouds

Sail a predetermined course

Their destiny preordained

By the heat of the sun

The variability

Of pressure.

Whether they like it

Or not

They follow a trail

Of logical progression

Without it

There would be chaos