The sun lost the battle.
Clouds rammed their way over the Med
Gathering strength like Vandals on the prowl.
They invaded the land, rushed the mountain, took it over,
A place from which to determine strategy
And what is worth plundering.
The wind, cold and fickle lashes out in cruel gusts,
Shaking the jasmine and the bougainvillea.
And yet to the south, some torn patch of blue lets in hope of warmth.
But these clouds are out of control,
Gathering, marshaling their number where there is no more room
Sucking color out of the world
Clothing the sky in pewter grey
Until fat drops lapidate tender roses who bend their foreheads to the ground…
“So be it” they sigh.