Clouds, thick with black middles and grey edges
That spread out to almost white where the sun
Tries to break through…but can’t, of course. No wedges
Of light may push their way through. It’s not done
Here in the north, where skies are never blue
And light is never bright and everything
Is ashen because the clouds just accrue–
Heaped upon the heavens, clouds anchoring
Clouds, a ceiling of unpierceable dim
Unmoving gloom made of murk and of haze
That presses down from the sky in a grim
Melancholy. Nights are as drear as days–
Without stars, without moon, without a sky
Arching black above–just dark clouds, piled high.
Juleigh Howard-Hobson’s work has appeared in such venues as The Lyric, Prime Number, The Liar’s League, The New Formalist, The Raintown Review, qarrtsiluni, and The Found Poetry Review. She has twice been nominated for a Pushcart. She lives in the Pacific North West, on a small farm besides a massive woods, in a place referred to as Dark Cascadia.