Different Skies

The sky pours out biblical rain
Then days so still,
the beauty gives you pain

- She's Saving Me by Indigo Girls


One of the little compensations of having to endure city traffic every workday evening is the cocoon of reverie that the long drive in my car affords.

It gives me the chance to do something that I wouldn’t otherwise find the time for – look at the evening sky.


At two points along the drive, the road morphs into a flyover, rising above the earthbound, crawling traffic. A momentary vista opens up across my windscreen, revealing an expanse of city skyline.

Down below, the metallic segments of the traffic millipede slowly inch on in an impotent whirl of wheels.


I love the serenity of an open sky. There’s a quiet dignity in its impassivity. One that is not lost even when its stage is alive with all manner of clouds busy impersonating chicken drumsticks, Mr. Potatohead or fluffy ballerina hippos.

It’s a solitary pleasure; watching the sky and its cast of clouds rising meringue-like from the city’s crust. No matter the level of white noise from humanity’s pulse, the sky remains indifferent to our petty squabbling and fishbowl posturing, save occasionally for an indignant change of hue whenever we spew too much of our crap into it.

You could be in the midst of a moving, hanky-soaked fairy garden wedding, and the massive ebony Tower-of-Doom clouds looming over, hell-bent on objecting, wouldn’t give a toss.


Twice in my life, I have had the good fortune to witness soul-numbingly, majestic skies.

At the Lake St. Clair National Park in Tasmania, I watched a silent parade as a pantheon of gods crossed the sky in gossamer wisps and cumulous gowns. I stood in the embrace, almost, of an ageless cradle of mountain, cloud and ice; savouring the icy silence of a pristine wilderness.

A moment forever etched in my memory.


Another time, halfway across a continent, how glad I was that I’d opted for the cheaper accommodation in the central desert of Australia.

The circle of khaki tents that looked so romantically British India in the copper sand transformed at night into a sheltering outpost around the flickering light of our campfire.

And oh, the view.

In the desert sands beneath Uluru, I lay on a canvas camp-bed watching star-fire burn cold diamonds into the onyx blanket of galactic sky.

Perspective.

That’s the gift that the sky offers you.

***

Return this man to Huma's breast
Beyond the wild, impartial skies;
Grant to him a warrior's rest
And set the last spark of his eyes
Free from the smothering clouds of wars
Upon the torches of stars.

Let the last surge of his breath
Take refuge in the cradling air
Above the dreams of ravens, where
Only the hawk remembers death.

Then let his shade to Huma rise,
Beyond the wild, impartial skies.

- Huma's Song, from the Dragonlance series