Hymn to the Sky

That time I wrote a poem for the strangeness of solitude sky;

considered all its vast majestic blueness (*note to self: am I allowed 
   ‘blueness’ here? Why is it majestic? Is it? Should I give up poetry?)

imagined all the things which lay beyond  (No, try…)

and contemplated worlds I’d never see (No... maybe abandon blank verse: 

   too much gravitas for a Monday morning? Try free verse instead? What 

   about becoming a bus driver/ self-help guru?)

Too easily distracted by my own thoughts,

I wandered off on flights of fancy, searching

instead, for words which might elucidate

this mood, this wistful melancholia (Why the humour, then? Also: 

   ‘elucidate’/ ‘melancholia’? Is that such a good idea?)

There are no clouds at all, from where I sit

From where I sat, I saw no clouds at all,

but emptiness and the next-door neighbour’s bloody dog, barking, again!!! 

   birdsong on a breeze. (We can ‘see’ birdsong’ now, can we? Can we?)

There’s nothing idle about contemplation:

next time you see the sky, just see the sky.

A rush of something then changed my mood;

the night was past, my dreams all turned to dust sand.

Thinking about the sky, this act of looking (This is why I prefer writing in 

   the afternoon.)

That act of getting distracted by my phone looking… thinking… looking… 

   thinking…

had lifted me. The day could now begin. ; the sky had lifted me.

The day began. There were no clouds, just blue.