Glimpses © 08 Rob Lock

In a car a man’s astounded
at the backdrop to the lashing rain
that’s washing weeks of grime away:
on his left, the sun in all its glory
sits behind a cloud that’s just,
he judges, dense enough
to let him glance full on.

It’s low, and shafts of light,
as tangible as those that Jesus slid down
as a child in some Renaissance painting
radiate towards huge banks of cloud
amassed like Michelangelo’s.
They penetrate the haze;
celestial vapour trails spin out.

Pinks and yellows, turquoise, stun
and all the while a kettle drum
of rain helps elevate these pastel hues
beyond all under-lit electric shades
of bruise he’s never seen in any other sky.
The moment has no end.
He’s almost having doubts about his doubts.

In a house a woman chuckles
at audacious antics in Bad Girls
as Fenner gets away with murder;
shushes as the man comes in
burbling on about this sky he’s seen.