From the great windows of the manor the sky was ever-blue, for the schools of clouds that came were ever the fish and rather than the water.
Upon the bus ride that new day, the clouds blossomed pink as if in visual empathy with the poppy red paint below.
Clouds formed a perfect line-up in the blue, as if they were boats safely mored in celestial harbour.
The clouds were given rosy glow by the setting sun.
Lacy white-edged clouds rolled in over the blue sky, their centres as deep as any shoreline rock.
The nighttime had brought a sky of granite-grey that faded and rose from total darkness, only to find that by true daylight it had fissures of brilliant light. To Amanda it was rock above that had been struck with the hammer of the Gods to let such gold pass through.
A congregation of clouds lit up the blue, each of them sensing the presence of the sun.
Brilliant sunlight shines amid infinite hues of white, the clouds ruffling in ripples as if it were some divine wedding dress.
The clouds are puffs of white magic in acres of blue. They are the brilliance of a new page upon a sky canvas of such consistent hue.
Come the eventide the clouds were cosy in their red-orange pyjamas.
It is from the cracks in the cloud layer that the brightest patches come, shining as if the sun had multiplied into these brilliant sky-puddles, each awaiting the boots of the soul to jump right in.
From white velvet clouds comes sleek rain, strong enough to reach the skin in moments. And though they give, they remain puffed all the same, as if their pride of their fullness is as wide as the sky.
Clouds lay golden and stoney above, for it was not they that mattered, yet the presence or absence of the sun.
Above those tangerine mountains, kissed to their heady blush by the sun, were clouds that moved in shoals. And so the sky was equal parts blue and a chorus of greys, streaked with silvers and golds.
Through the glass was the ever changing art of the sky, the clouds that brought infinite images of beauty. There was something in that feeling of gratitude, for all those gifts given so freely, all for spending a moment gazing into the blue. So in those summer evenings, as I rested in bed, awaiting dreams to dance into my nighttime brain, to bring adventures of silliness and mirth, I watched cloud patterns no eye has ever seen before or will again. Come the dawn it was the same, such a casual beauty, transitory and eternal, changing and constant.
My dreams dwell not upon this earthy plain, yet soar to the clouds and are reborn in the blue above, beneath stars who always shine. So whilst they are the beauty above, an ever changing canvas of silvery swirls, as soft as the finest of cloth - they are simply a thing to fly through as I become heaven-bound.
At the edge of the cloud there was a brilliant white patch, like a turning page catching the sun. The rest was dove grey with a subtle hint of purple, just enough to announce the coming sunset.
The cloud was a white ribbon upon the velvet sky, making a half-spiral as if fluttering in lofty breezes. From below it decorated the sky, from above it decorate the earth, a gift of beauty to surpass any silken or woven cloth.
