He thought he saw the face of God in a cloud, but it soon disappeared as the light faded, leaving not a hint of soul.
The limitless variety of clouds, as they glide this way and that across the nebulous expanse of sky, never exactly repeating themselves, despite superficial appearances to the contrary.
Some clouds seem to be at the roots of mythological fancies, like dragons and griffins. Others assume animal or human forms. and some are akin to dirigibles in their leisurely unfolding. I have seen clouds that assume the heads of bears and others that of foxes or dogs, all of which are capable of morphing into something else.
Having one’s head in the clouds, as on occasion did Wordsworth and Baudelaire, to name but two poets, is no bad thing from a metaphysical standpoint, since it suggests an idealistic disposition towards the subjectively ethereal and is doubtless preferable to losing one’s head in some other fashion.
The contemplation of clouds, when they are of a sufficiently interesting and graceful nature, is a form of self-transcendence leading to a relaxed and even meditative state-of-mind, especially in the early evening when the sun is setting or has just set.
The distant church spire appeared to be wreathed in a halo of luminous splendour as the setting sun sank beneath the horizon.
Was it akin to raised dough, or was it more like candyfloss? There were gossamer-like wisps of cloud trailing from its amorphous bulk which dissolved into the ether and left no trace. Now the candyfloss turned into cotton wool and, before long, a cigar formed which mutated into an airship before collapsing towards a nebulous cushion that once more became a cloud and was soon past the window out of which I stared as though with hypnotized eyes into the depths of my imagination.
Logic had taken a holiday, and he was more like a child, but without angst or suspicion. He seemed to have returned to the artistry of his youth, but only for a brief moment. Soon he was back at his desk, pushing logic to the limits of its endurance.
Plunging into the evening sky, he felt released from earthly bondage and flew heavenwards on wings of transcendent joy.
A mottled cloudscape, disturbed only by the transient flight of a stray bird, met his gaze as he slowly lifted his eyes towards the heavens in hope of deliverance from earthly bonds.
He was no common earth-grubber, to ‘plunge into’ the leaf mould or tufts of grass which crossed his diurnal path. Rather did he avert his gaze in disgust from such mundane growths. The only reason he habitually looked down was to avoid stepping into or tripping over anything. It never occurred to him to embrace the earth or what grew from it, like a John Cowper Powys.
With his head in the clouds, he felt himself to be ahead of the world and its countless rats racing around in every direction but the one guaranteed to lead up and out … towards otherworldly delights.