At sunset (and at dawn perhaps,
I really would not know),
The clouds, their rules are know to lapse
They get to choose their colors, though
What they were when it begins you see
Must limit some just what their choices be.
The white clouds turn to yellow and pink,
Or some shade of gold, but always bright.
Dark clouds sometimes look like crimson ink
Or purple veins which underpin that light.
In any case the clouds they do transform
Their daytime roles displaying wind or storm.
Instead they bear glorious witness to the sun
The source of life, ‘round which the earth does run.
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