Cloud Nurseries

I'm hitting you with the briefest of  cloud  blogs this overcast Saturday morning, the shortest piece I've posted since the time I didn't know what to say about dolls! The temptation was to write nothing at all (always a sound idea when you think you don't have anything remotely interesting to say); but then a nagging sense of duty combined with the Protestant work ethic bestirred me to put together prose, picture and poem - and the picture is possibly the best of the three (and certainly more eloquent than a thousand words).

Of all the varieties of cloud I could have written about, I'm going for the Magellanic Clouds, for out of such clouds future stars are born. There are two Magellanic Clouds, the Large (LMC) and the Small (SMC). Both are irregularly-shaped gas-rich clusters of matter orbiting around our own Milky Way, galaxies as satellites of a galaxy - how fascinating is that? They are most easily visible from the southern hemisphere and have featured in the folklore of Africa, Asia and the antipodes for thousands of years.

I like to think of the Magellanic Clouds as nurseries in which new worlds are being gestated - or more accurately coalescing. As clusters, they are breath-takingly beautiful - the image below of NGC-1783 (a sub-section of the Large Magellanic Cloud) can only convey an inferior idea of their true majesty. The LMC spawned the largest supernova of recent times.

I've just imported that image as the 'wallpaper' on my laptop. The bigger it is the more amazing it looks. (Feel free to snag it.)

As a poem to accompany this brief space blog (I know, it seems to have been a recurrent theme of late), I offer you Radio Big Bang It's still a work-in-progress but I'm quite taken with the idea. Anyway, I hope you like it...

Radio Big Bang
Don't mess with that dial, star-child.
You've locked on to Radio Big Bang
pulsing on the back-beat of the universe.

DJ Sky High (aka the Detonator)
is coming at you through the ether
from Deepest Space
to grace your speculating hours,
letting you know you are not alone.

Tuned-in girls and boys
in the galaxy next door
are shaking their pods
and bouncing the floor
in time to the station's roaring beat,

so stay on this frequency and groove
with some fundamental moves.
Throw your shapes, embrace the wave
and enjoy the elation
of being at one with creation,
not just raving, resounding.


We are stardust. Thanks for reading, S ;-)

Read More

I've looked at clouds from both sides now.....

It was Joni Mitchell who wrote the song "Both Sides, Now", a song that I first heard during my school music competition in 1970. The phrase, 'Rows and flows of angel hair and ice-cream castles in the air,' still resonates with me. I sing it to my granddaughter.

Of course, we learn about the science of clouds in geography lessons at school. They have fascinating names - the highest clouds in the atmosphere are cirrocumulus, cirrus, and cirrostratus. Cumulonimbus clouds can also grow to be very high. Mid-level clouds include altocumulus and altostratus.The lowest clouds in the atmosphere are stratus, cumulus, and stratocumulus. The names roll on the tongue like candyfloss, popping and fizzing.

My father often used the cloud formations as a weather forecaster before he trapesed off with his fishing rod and tackle. (He wore a yellow vinyl jacket and trousers when he went fishing off North Pier - the jacket had a hood with a peak. Mum would say, "There goes Busby." It was so funny - he looked just like the yellow bird on the BT advertisements). But I digress - we were talking about clouds. Dad would see a mottled formation of cloud and declare that it was a 'mackerel sky' and that meant it was going to be windy. If there were no clouds over the Trough of  Bowland when viewed from the vantage point at the top of John Slack Hill, he would predict that there would be rain in Blackpool very soon.

I often cloud -gaze and unlike the prophets of doom, I love to see vapour-trails criss-crossing the sky on a clear day. I once had a close encounter with an extraordinary cloud formation. My father died on May Day 1998 and I left my husband in August of that year. Divorce was a certainty but terms became acrimonious so I packed up the children and moved in with Mum. Her house has only two bedrooms and as you can imagine the situation was far from ideal but it was a stop-gap.

I tried to maintain normality for the children and twice a week drove my daughter to her gymnastics training in Garstang. We often went across country, over Shard Bridge, through Out Rawcliffe. One day, around 4.30pm we were on an open stretch of road when we encountered something incredible...

On the road to Garstang

Do you remember the day –

The day we had our visitation?

We were driving through the countryside

To a usual destination,

When suddenly we saw a sight 

Beyond our comprehension

A vision of an angel

In a mighty cloud formation,

With two great wings

The heavenly seraphim filled our view,

The sunlight streamed behind

Like glory shining through.

I stopped the car, we stepped outside

And stood amazed and quiet. 

A vision surely sent to us –

To say God’s love is true.

My grieving heart was lifted high,

I would not walk alone.

It was a sign from heaven

A guardian of our own.  

   

Read More

Clouds - When the Storm Clouds Gather

Living over a Blackpool Promenade pub in the mid-sixties was wonderful and the ever-changing views from the front windows never lost their fascination for any of us. My mother, when she wasn’t busy, sat in the bay window of our living room, often accompanied by my nanna, a frequent visitor.  My father kept a pair of binoculars on the window sill and liked to look at the horizon on a clear day.

I sat with my mother one sunny day, nothing special, just watching holiday-makers on the sands. It was full of deck-chairs, wind-breakers and families having fun.

“They will be coming off the beach in a minute.”  I remember my mother saying. She told me to look at the clouds coming in with the tide, how they were darkening. The horizon had vanished into the blur of grey and dusky pink that was moving closer until it covered the sun and what was left of blue sky. A rumble of thunder was followed by huge raindrops. People on the beach made haste to gather their belongings and make a run for shelter. Some dashed under South Pier, but they would have to move again as the tide came in. Mum and I watched the lightning fill the sky like electric charges breaking the clouds, and the rain, now heavy, sweeping across the promenade, not a soul in sight.

Many years later I recognised the same cloud formation. We were having a family holiday in Pembrokeshire, my husband and I with our two young children. Between Saundersfoot and Amroth there is a lovely stretch of beach and rock pools at Wiseman’s Bridge, so called because of the small, stone built bridge over the stream of fresh water filtering from the land to the sea. There were toilets nearby, a shop for ice creams and always somewhere to park. The only down-side was clambering over unstable rocks to get on to the beach or down the concrete path on the other side of the bridge carrying picnic, towels, fishing nets, buckets and spades and our beach tent. My husband and I would struggle to feed the flexible poles through the correct channels in the beach tent, especially if it was breezy, but when it was finished and anchored with rocks, it was perfect. I’m sure modern day versions are simpler, but those days are gone. We were all in or close to the tent, tucking into our picnic when I noticed the clouds on the horizon and wondered how long we had before the rain would arrive. Should we pack up and go to the car taking into account getting across the rocks again, or all four of us huddle together in the tent with the open side fully zipped up? I’ve got a feeling that we did both, on separate occasions. I’ll have to ask the kids.

It’s lovely to lie back on the ground and watch the sky on a summer’s day. Imagine being up there, floating on one of those fluffy, feathery, cotton-wool clouds, just resting.

Looking down on clouds is an enchanting sight, too. Natural beauty.

 

Two choices of poem,

 

Dylan Thomas

 

Shall gods be said to thump the clouds
When clouds are cursed by thunder,
Be said to weep when weather howls?
Shall rainbows be their tunics' colour?

When it is rain where are the gods?
Shall it be said they sprinkle water
From garden cans, or free the floods?

Shall it be said that, venuswise,
An old god's dugs are pressed and pricked,
The wet night scolds me like a nurse?

It shall be said that gods are stone.
Shall a dropped stone drum on the ground,
Flung gravel chime? Let the stones speak
With tongues that talk all tongues.

 

 

and Emily Dickinson

     The sky is low, the clouds are mean,

     A travelling flake of snow

     Across a barn or through a rut

     Debates if it will go.

 

    A narrow wind complains all day

    How some one treated him;

    Nature, like us, is sometimes caught

    Without her diadem.

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Read More

Clouds Over Mill Farm

Admiring the view of the countryside from the top row of the stand, I looked at the grey sky. Clouds were gathered in all directions, some dark, possibly bringing a shower. The weather forecast had given a mixed morning with a brighter afternoon.  It was edging into mid-afternoon now and I hoped for the brighter bit to arrive, or at least stay dry. I folded my raincoat over my seat, hoping I wouldn’t need it and relaxed into the welcome atmosphere of togetherness that I was experiencing.  I sipped steaming tea from a disposable cup, enjoying the full, strong flavour and glanced around, taking in my unfamiliar surroundings. Mill Farm, home of AFC Fylde, it was a pleasure to be at this football ground.  Everyone, like me, was wearing Blackpool FC team colours. They arrived in groups, in pairs or alone, waving and calling to others they knew. I watched the stands turn into a mass of tangerine and white as people took their places. Greetings, handshakes, embraces, everyone happy, like me. Excited, like me. This was no ordinary football match. No league table, no pressure, no looming metaphorical dark cloud. It was going to be fun, it was special, to give thanks to a legend of the modern game, this was the Brett Ormerod Testimonial.

Clouds were slowly drifting. The grey one overhead looked threatening and I silently begged it not to rain. Not today, please, not today.

The teams ran onto the pitch to a standing ovation and formed a guard of honour for Brett. There was an individual cheer for each player and I was caught up in the emotion as Brett came on to rapturous applause and chants of Super-Brett.

During the match, the clouds dispersed until a few wispy white ones floated high in the blue sky of a warm and sunny afternoon.

Goals, penalties, unlimited substitutions with lots of singing and laughter from a cheerful crowd supporting both teams, Tangerine All-Stars v Dave Challinor’s AFC Fylde Select.  The result was 5-5, perfectly fitting for the occasion.

This day had been a long time coming but was well worth waiting for. At the end, as Brett first applauded then addressed the crowd from a pitch bathed in sunshine, there was nowhere I’d rather be.

Clouds Over Mill Farm

Clouds have gathered over Mill Farm,

Oh please don’t rain until tonight.

Please keep the weather warm and calm

While we’re all tangerine and white.

We’d like this special match for Brett

On a day that’s sunny and bright

And love and joy we aim to get

When we’re all tangerine and white.

PMW 2016

And because I mentioned Brett,

Sea Sea Seasiders 2010

Everything tangerine and white

Fans all meet in great assembly,

Blackpool FC in the top flight,

They’ve beaten Cardiff at Wembley.

Open top bus in ’53,

Everything tangerine and white,

The FA Cup for all to see,

Bill Perry’s goal, the town’s delight.

Open top bus like ’53,

Everything tangerine and white,

The play-off cup for all to see,

Ormerod’s goal, the town’s delight.

Ollie’s team have got the power,

Premier League, a dizzy height.

Blackpool flag atop the tower,

Everything tangerine and white.

PMW 2010

Thanks for reading, Pam.

Read More

Eye witness

On Saturday, Dave and I spent a peaceful hour and a half on Fleetwood Promenade staring at clouds.  My little yellow car might not be much cop when it comes to CV joints (if you know a cheap source of near-side front CV joints for a 2001 Daihatsu Cuore I've a slightly less rare unicorn to trade) but it does boast large windows which have been cleaned this year and seats that are comfortable when jackets are applied as headrests.  The pair of happy burbling bellies filled with fish, chips and mushy peas were a contributory factor to our indulgent ninety minute gaze.

Through the front window we had a view of a twist of tide, contorted and gradually bulging, like our girths, until it engulfed the long, black scratches of bladder wrack.  Buoys and men stood side by side at the water's edge so that we couldn't tell one from the other.  They were standing so still and at such a distance that we heard our neighbours in the car beside us repeat our conversation:
"Is it a man?"
"No, it's a buoy."
"I saw it move."
"No.  It's definitely a buoy.  It looks just like the other buoys."
"It definitely moved.  It's a man."
"Yep.  That's a man.  Fishing probably."

And not once did any of us suggest that it was a woman.

A three-legged spaniel flopped down beside a small boy who ran his hands through the tangled pebble-dash fur.  A sandy shiba inu ran up to the cast iron statue of a terrier and crouched before it, tail sweeping the salty air, inviting it to play.  The dog ran around to the sculpted rear and sniffed it but even this could not convince the dog that its metal counterpart was not alive.

After consulting Google Maps, we figured out which hills were Arnside and which bit of land was Walney Island. We disagreed over whether the hill, covered in wind turbines, was closer to us than Heysham Power Station, one wall of which glimmered as a golden square in the intermittent sun.  Dave remarked that it was odd to think that the other walls, facing the south, east and north respectively, would never know that much light.  It took me a minute or two to work out what he meant.

In a relaxed state, my mind picked out animals in the clouds.  Several mice became elephants as the expectant air was stretched across a backdrop of rain-grey mush.  The closer the rain clouds came, the brighter the cumulonimbus appeared, edged in charcoal grey and seemingly lit from within.  Great cauliflower masses were thinned before our eyes.  A great lion leaped at another mouse but was only a slither of amethyst minutes later.  Porridge specks and clotted cream balloons pushed in front of giants with indigo bottoms and apricot hair.

We saw what we saw, not what we knew and, let me tell you, clouds are not white.

Read More