Ballad of a Cloud-Gazer

Last night I went out, the clouds

ostentatious and playful:

one of them got me up dancing,

I bought her a Barcadi and Coke;

she was a mouthful.

Needless to say the time came

when I held her, vaporous in my arms.

Holding a cloud is like catching fireflies

with a broken net.

I said, as soft and light as forceful could be,

'Why don't you come back to mine,

have a drink with me?'

A longing sultry look, vapid sparkling eyes,

a kiss on the lips like a slug,

I knew it was perfect right there:

I knew it was lust.

But fucking a cloud is strange:

it's cold and purchaseless.

And once you're done it breaks apart

and it rains right through your head.

She was gone by morning:

precipitation to evaporation, part of her

smudged rainly on my window pane.

They say clouds are unique:

I'll never see her again.

I look up at the dappled sky:

I thought I'd forgotten her,

but I still recall her name was Heather.

And now I'm rainless, broken, punctured - British -

and I think I'm obsessed with the weather.