Stratospheric disturbance
Perhaps that night I said too much,
ignoring niceties to eclipse the strident voices
baying in misunderstanding and meanness.
My incoherent anger was misread for greed,
dissatisfaction with what was left,
unaware I wanted nothing.
Unlike the weather, there was no storm warning
gaze above your head and the mares tails
of Cirrus Uncinus warn of coming wind,
the length of tail is guidance to the blow.
Ice crystals at altitudes above six kilometres
send their gently tumbling message to the eye,
influenced by an advancing depression.
The ice touched me that night, and no amount
of heated words could form a warm front.
Vapour trails cleave the upper atmosphere,
following a solitary flight path.
* Ivor Murrell lives and writes in Suffolk
