a children’s poem by Thomas Davis
Like fat, old clowns with hilly pants
The clouds stride up the mountain sides
And foam their draughts of bright, white brew
And shout and dance with joyous cries.
I stand three hundred miles away
Upon a grainy yellow plain
And wonder what sweet airy sap
Will fetch clouds past the mountain range.
Although written a long time ago, in a year of terrible drought, this seems an appropriate poem for this drought stricken year.
fourwindowspress 