Enthroned above the clouds, the bright sun shines,
Revealing sweeping plains that lazily drift
For hazy miles, their landscape soft and light,
So gently brushed in subtle shades of mist.

Occasionally, a searing stream cuts through
Their tender fields, to cut a canyon deep
With tree-lined faces tumbling into blue,
Cascading down towards the crust beneath.

Unspoilt by time or weary human woes,
These glorious vistas sweep for miles and miles,
Distracting us from our travails below
And lifting us above our earth-bound trials.

Could I dwell here above these lightened clouds?
Or would I fear to step upon their fields,
Concerned that weighty feet might drag and roughly
Cleave a stain, and glory thus conceal?

Would tears erode, dull cynicism tear?
Aspirations conspire with gravity?
Would innocence be found too much to bear
For us in light of all we’ve done and seen?

There’s something missing here I fear and sense;
These cloudscapes prove too pure, I feel, too white
At depth’s expense. I need the tone and texture
Of life below to thrive, both glorious day
And turbulence of night.

We’ve just taken off from a dark autumnal morning in England. Piercing the clouds, we entered a world transformed by the sun, a world that was, somehow, just a little too perfect.
(03.11.26)

© Ben Quant 2026