Clouds, I thought you were a friend,
But at present, I’m not so sure.
With cover and dullness slow to end,
And sunny hope you long obscure.

For why on many a winter’s day,
Do you stubbornly stay the same?
A landscape of endless gloomy grey,
And world trapped listless in your frame.

Then where your kindly clumpy mounds,
And their benign fair-weather wool?
When in summer sky, their sort abounds,
With these delights seems ever full.

I view this as a sky-drawn curtain,
The stage behind it being prepared.
And though duration looms uncertain,
It helps me through when I’ve despaired.

Yet I know that soon when all is set,
And brighter scenery is revealed.
I’ll my every complaint then forget,
As to the year’s new glory yield.

And I appreciate clouds need to gather,
To discuss, agree and plan.
But can you please reduce the blather,
For of this cloud, I’m not a fan.