That Effeminate Sky

Vanity and vexation
evidently can beset the
tolerant patience of the
sky, no less than that of
a woman whose fickleness
and vixenish ways poets
have so long celebrated.

That great festive bowl
of heaven picks daintily
among her wardrobe of
choice. Shall it be, this
wintry day, wispy feathers
of vapour teasing the
power of the sun...?

Its relentlessly probing
fingers restrained, or a
flippant veil of silvery sheen?
On the other hand, the wind's
impudence, dishevelling those
gauzy-slight integuments may
narrow the decision process.

Selecting opaque stolidity
of white, grey clouds; even to
shades of bruised purple,
though courtesy and discretion
mitigate against enquiry even
while the sky avoids scrutiny.

Its provenance, after all,
despite the shocking nature
of prevailing gossip is not to
be disclosed. To screen herself
from searching eyes she calls
upon the elements to turn
her tears to snowflakes.