The speaker is addressing someone, or perhaps something, they long to truly meet, and they doubt it will ever happen. The opening lines are wry and self-mocking: maybe the encounter will pass unrecognised, maybe the other is no more than a stone to stub a toe on, or maybe the speaker is the stone. The question "when are we ever going to meet?" carries a quiet ache underneath the joking.
What the speaker wants is real closeness: to look past a face, into the eyes, and feel held inside another mind. If that can't happen, the alternative is bleak. Two "empty clouds" drifting past each other into emptiness.
Then the poem swerves to the dead crows by the roadside. The last line, that dead crows look very dead, is flat and almost comic, yet it lingers. It suggests how blunt and unconsoling the world can be. The mood is a mix of longing, dry humour and loneliness, with the final image making the missed connection feel more final.