Sonnet LXXIII

The archetypal clouds existed too
in Jason’s time. And still they pirouette
with skies as Prussian blue as artist’s hues,
illuminated by an ochre sun.

Come sunset, evening hides the Firmament
behind silk screens of many varied shades
which masquerade and show through other tints,
displaying pastel colours swirls in wisps.

But this fine fabric's not a painted scene:
These birds that all abound are not just sewn,
The clouds aren’t fixed, they circulate their laps;
The moon, though stationary, lights the sea.

All this I see within a small, round glass.
And then a blur as all the world goes past.