cloudy day - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
What could be better, amid the wintry wind that blows my hair into artistic swirls, than the brilliant rays of sunlight the clouds conspire to let through?
The cloudy day is her joy, for those passing white blossoms of the sky bring the transitory shade she loves. Upon the sidewalk she is as a happy butterfly beneath a tree canopy, passing from bright sun to mellow hues.
Sun-kissed white clouds blossom in the blue, free to fly with the wind. In the long horizon they take on silver hues, those deeper graphite tones that promise good rain.
And she walks with her umbrella stick. Behind her back it nips and taps her heels. The rhythm sharp and lively, it snaps, and a song comes to mind. Mi fa so, la ti do~ The rabbit jumped over the lou~ Into the garden he leapt and played, only to become Mcgregger's stew~ Her smile grows into something fond, laughter ringing through the cold. A rhyme for days such as these when the sky is overwhelmed with emotion, tears threatening to unleash themselves upon her.
Taryn eyed the sky nervously, the clouds that had been wispy and white that morning were now darker and more dense. She quickened her pace, this was not the day to be caught in a downpour.
It had been overcast since she had woken. At first she assumed that it was too early to be up, the light hardly penetrated the fabric of her shelter. But after some moments of trying to return to sleep she had poked her head outside. The sky was awash with various shades of grey, in places a chink of light managed to break through, but otherwise it was almost as dark as pre-dawn. The air was humid and smelt of storms. Now she had to make a difficult call, should she march on to Dallowway or hunker down until the rains passed? She considered the flaws in each plan. She would have to chance it, there really was no choice.
The gloom of the day was reflected in the moods of the citizens. Grey carpeted the sky so completely that even at noon the cars still needed full headlights and the street-lamps shone feebly into the perpetual twilight.
It was cloudy for July. Mostly it was still hot but when a some cumulus moved over the sun people started to feel a chill. They either wore summer clothes and froze momentarily or put on a sweater only to have to remove it soon after. This roast and freeze cycle continued until nightfall.
There is no sky today, only a rough woollen blanket of mottled grey to cover us all and block out the sun. The usual virescent hues of the countryside are muted to the point of dullness and inside our dwelling it is as dark as the night before. The air is heavy with the dampness of a coming storm and even the creatures know to seek shelter. It is quiet out, unnaturally so. We close the shutters, set out the rain barrels, retreat inside. These are the only times we are together, we will sing by candlelight and recite the poems of the book, rejoice and be thankful for the rain.
Earlier in the morning the blue that stretched into the horizon had only been broken only by transitory wisps of white. Now it threaded across the sky in thicker bands. Yet they were still white with hardly a trace of grey and we dispelled worries of rain.
Gone was the open blue sky of yesterday. Above was an almost unbroken layer of white and grey, brilliant where the sunshine broke through and dark where it did not. Camille dipped back in the house for her favourite sweater, silently thanking the clouds for giving her a chance to wear it...