Dark sepulchral metaphors.
The glow of morning makes them darker by its placement of contrasts.
The formless stratocumuli arrange themselves in nervous juxtapositions while the rising sun confronts them with enclosures of devastating consequences.
The overcast meanderings of stratus remain within the hazes of the summer’s lingering ablutions.
The warmth of the air is a shrunken mummified corpse of its former warm-blooded wholesome physicality.
The evening adapts to the arrival of nighttime by introducing a transition of gloom through timely stages of influence that will soon be gone.
The ghosts of summer resonate within these immaculate hazes, the soul of escaped torments manifesting as resources of beauty.
We bow before them on the bended knees of our psychology, worshipping their sense of impasse as the summer withdraws from the arena of its dominant settings.
Through yellowing obfuscations and the defiance of the sheen of Belenus, globular abundances of cumulus rise from the weakness of obscurity with their muscular dispositions.
These clouds, titans wading through bloody pools of glowing mist, are the painted renditions of classical scenes, the mythologies of ancients displayed in Italian galleries, arriving here in gigantic transpositions of actualisation.
Scotland has borrowed their mantle and exhales them in raucous depictions across the three-dimensional canvases of its celestial atmospheric domes of enclosure.
Nature imitates Art that imitates Nature and, in doings so, extends its limitless depths beyond the boundaries of awe.
The ultraform clouds were driven to extremes of greyness.
The nimbus departs, withdrawing the destructive opinions of the achromatic mainstream.
The sun makes its breakthrough like some seismic animal.
The scale of its convergence is dramatic without exaggeration.
Dream clusters of cumulus absorb the air masses with giant sponges of shapely updrafts.
The volume of light is restricted to parameters of crepuscular tonality and an active resonance (rather than lingering) of unexpected virtual warmth.
In the wake of summer, cumbustions of humidity insist on leaving traces of the passing ambience of former phases.
Changes come with reluctance, disturbed by the cruel implications of inevitability.
The resistance causes fractures in the uniformity of the transformation.
The softness of the rain is a form of weeping.
The world is full of sorrows that cannot be contained by the forms they inhabit.
The clouds are an outcry of the Earth, a pronunciation of its emotional repertoire.
They are a language of vapours written in the words of condensed gases that combine tracts of meaning with visual symbols of unsystematic value.
Celestial expressions of the landscapes are put into context by the disposition of the light-dynamics of the sun.
At night, the clouds become luminous expressions of their ghostly counterparts, voices from beyond the grave of the terrain speaking through a muted darkness.
The sky is a meadow of blooming tyrants.
Its angles merge to form a single, patternless extremity of self-absence.
The emptiness of the cloudless universe is a false impression devised from our proximity to the life-giving sun.
How many other impressions are received from such life-giving sources that deceive us with ideas on life that are not true?
The evenings are over-saturated with the forgotten lustre of high summer.
Passages in time are like a series of retractions from the fullness of space.
They are outlined in the subtle changes of a particular shade of the passing season.
The spread of clouds is drawn back to reveal a reversal of their cumulus ascendancies.
We feel the pleasures of our yearning.
We feed the monsters of our hopes from the midst of our dreams.
Skies of alchemical noise integration – of dashes of silver and splayed ideals and the rivers of blemishes of cold steel and the marked remembrances of old scars past.
Tongues of wavering cut the ragged edges of the cloudbase with their mystic words of cruel meaning.
The stratocumulus compressions of hard materials now soften under the bluntness of the sun’s wielded blades.
Requisitions of forgotten history are displayed like hieroglyphs on the projected surface.
We must look on them with our strange longings.
We search for the experiences of the striving agencies that came before us.
The dullness of the sky is a resounding hollow over the disrupted manscape of the city.
Manmade infrastructures are the masters of drabness.
They attract the cloying aspects of the weatherheads with the appeal of nothing.