clouds - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
A congregation of clouds lit up the blue, each of them sensing the presence of the sun.
Brilliant sunlight shines amid infinite hues of white, the clouds ruffling in ripples as if it were some divine wedding dress.
The clouds are puffs of white magic in acres of blue. They are the brilliance of a new page upon a sky canvas of such consistent hue.
Massive amounts of wind are both music and the dance-floor for the clouds... vagrant, white and puffy as they are - playing and teasing with other clouds and moving freely in the sky as if they own freedom itself. Yet I wondered why at times they cry with fierce and sonorous thunder...
It is from the cracks in the cloud layer that the brightest patches come, shining as if the sun had multiplied into these brilliant sky-puddles, each awaiting the boots of the soul to jump right in.
From white velvet clouds comes sleek rain, strong enough to reach the skin in moments. And though they give, they remain puffed all the same, as if their pride of their fullness is as wide as the sky.
Clouds lay golden and stoney above, for it was not they that mattered, yet the presence or absence of the sun.
Above those tangerine mountains, kissed to their heady blush by the sun, were clouds that moved in shoals. And so the sky was equal parts blue and a chorus of greys, streaked with silvers and golds.
Through the glass was the ever changing art of the sky, the clouds that brought infinite images of beauty. There was something in that feeling of gratitude, for all those gifts given so freely, all for spending a moment gazing into the blue. So in those summer evenings, as I rested in bed, awaiting dreams to dance into my nighttime brain, to bring adventures of silliness and mirth, I watched cloud patterns no eye has ever seen before or will again. Come the dawn it was the same, such a casual beauty, transitory and eternal, changing and constant.
My dreams dwell not upon this earthy plain, yet soar to the clouds and are reborn in the blue above, beneath stars who always shine. So whilst they are the beauty above, an ever changing canvas of silvery swirls, as soft as the finest of cloth - they are simply a thing to fly through as I become heaven-bound.
At the edge of the cloud there was a brilliant white patch, like a turning page catching the sun. The rest was dove grey with a subtle hint of purple, just enough to announce the coming sunset.
The cloud was a white ribbon upon the velvet sky, making a half-spiral as if fluttering in lofty breezes. From below it decorated the sky, from above it decorate the earth, a gift of beauty to surpass any silken or woven cloth.
The cloud colors of one of the four sunsets enjoyed on the voyage were remarkably pure and rich in tone. There was a well-defined range of cumuli a few degrees above the horizon, and a massive, dark-gray rain-cloud above it, from which depended long, bent fringes overlapping the lower cumuli and partially veiling them; and from time to time sunbeams poured through narrow openings and painted the exposed bosses and fringes in ripe yellow tones, which, with the reflections on the water, made magnificent pictures.
Today the clouds are white marble on blue satin, dove grey underneath and brilliant white where they are thin enough to let the light through.
This morning as I rode the bus to the office the sky was blue, only sporting a few wisps of white cloud. They formed almost neat lines above, being dragged by a wind I could not feel. Now as I come to leave the stressful monotony that is my work behind for another day, and claim some take-out on the way home, the sky is a blanket of grey. Only the merest quantity of the fading sunlight is getting through, truncating the daylight by hours, casting us into the grey shadowy world that isn't due until almost nightfall. I hold out my yet ungloved hand to feel for the rain-drops that I think I just felt on my cheek. It's just a smattering for now, I can use my umbrella as a walking stick, it's soft clacking noise lost against the roar of the traffic.
High, ice-crystal clouds which look like wispy curls of hair, often the first signs of approaching weather changes. they block the king of heat from reaching the sky.
Clouds swollen with snow. Black clouds hung over the rooftops like malevolent angels.
Clouds drift with icy, unnatural slowness. Clouds race across the leaden sky with it's tumbling vapours. Ragged edges of stony grey clouds. Cumulus cloud blocking the sun from view, edges glowing and as white marble against the darkening sky.
Cloud deck lowering, slate grey clouds, darkening cloud deck stretching out as far as the eye can see, cloud resembling a black torn wing, dusky region of cloud, flocks of cumulus.
The clouds were lazily drifting across an otherwise perfect forget-me-not blue sky.
The sun was streaming through a break in the clouds in great watery shafts of gold.
The darkness of the film is a gloom that permeates every aspect of script and plot. Clouds loom in the sky, every shade of monochrome from sliver though storm grey leaving gaps only for the black night. Against the cars with their running boards lean the men, faces partially obscured not only by the lack of light but by the rims of their fedoras. The only glint in the blackness comes not from the moon, but from cigarette tips like crazy red fireflies born to die.
In just minutes there will be a reason for the homicide cops to cordon off the area, but not yet. Soon more dark painted classic cars will crawl out of the black night. After some wise-cracks and a negotiation that was never destined to succeed, the shoot-out will begin.
The sky was darkly foreboding.
The sky was bearing down on us.
The sky was a blanket of grey, like a great grey carpet.
The clouds were thin and wispy.
The clouds were hot silver in the thunderous sky.
Cloud belt on the horizon, reddened clouds, pink sunset clouds, scudding clouds, storm clouds.
Snow white clouds scatter across the zircon sky that stretches over the horizon.
The clouds floated in the air like marshmallows, promising him that everything would be alright.
The clouds were grey, ominous and threatening,they were rain clouds and nothing like the fluffy white cotton-balls of the afternoon.
On clear days, clouds drift into view, forming the images of horse's heads, ships with filled white sails, perhaps an eagle flying upward. Just as quickly as they appear, they melt into the blue backdrop of the sky. They vanish. For that brief encounter, one has observed one of the universe's great shows.
Heaven was leaking, dropping tints of gold onto Earth where the cloud was thin enough to let it through.
Visible patches of watery vapour floated in the atmosphere.