Bright clouds in May slice the pond in two: one half lies in cool shade, the other blazes with sun. There, tall reeds rise like abandoned bayonets, marking a spot where a bird once sang but has now vanished. The light wind frets the water, idly herding a thin scum of fallen may-blossom. No one notices. When a moorhen breaks the quiet, the call only deepens the sense that nothing can be done—by birds or people—to slow the season’s quiet unravelling. Still the petals drop. The speaker watches with a solitary, tender attention, feeling the weight of passing time in every bright shift of light. The mood is fragile and suspended, calm but edged with loss, as if the whole scene holds its breath.
Bright Clouds — Summary
BRIGHT clouds of may Shade half the pond. Beyond, All but one bay Of emerald Tall reeds Like criss-cross bayonets Where a bird once called, Lies bright as the sun. No one heeds. The light wind frets And drifts the scum Of may-blossom. Till the moorhen calls Again Naught's to be done By birds or men. Still the may falls.