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.