Sky - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Feet firmly planted on the ground I look up at a defiant sky, the dome of our existence. I see no fairness there, no sense of responsibility. Some days are dark, angry, bitter spitting rain, hail, fire and brimstone. Others calm, serene with light fluffy clouds as if there wasn't a care in the world. Why? I ask myself are some people drawn towards the former, and others towards the latter.
The sky is dappled by the cloud, a beauty over our motley crew. So we rest on our backs and let our eyes gaze upward, enjoying the nothing that is everything.
Between clouds that promise rain, is a river of blue. From this sky-river comes a light that feels akin to pride, to confidence, that it will shine in any season, in any weather, the rays uniting as great beams. I imagine for a moment that they are strong enough to support the heavens above, these beams, so that we may walk with raised eyes, smiling at this beauty, thankful for the given day.
Give me the blue of the sky and I have clarity, for in that expanse of sweet calm air is a sense of freedom. The sky is both high above and touching my skin, reaching all the way to the path that sparkles with the first autumn frost. Is there anything so cleansing as this? Perhaps the river that flows, or the forest that hosts so much nature... It is what my spirit calls for, a chance to be one with so much and feel the togetherness of solitary moments, the connectedness of all living things.
Somewhere above this sky, born of the colour of summer Iris, swirl galaxies of brilliant stars. On fine days such as this I feel their energy the same way the smile of one I love infuses my soul, raises me higher. So I pause, let my feet join the serenity of quietness, and breathe. That's when I feel it all the more, sense energy from the trees, the birdsong and the very soil upon which I stand. They say the universe is all connected, as are we all, and in this moment it's so tangible, real.
I wonder if anyone noticed how pretty the sky was today, how the blue was bright and soft all at once. I wonder if they saw the serenity of the clouds that sailed by, gently passing on toward anyplace the wind wishes them to reach. I wonder if they let their eyes rest upon their white tops and follow the infinite greys that blend so harmoniously with one another, almost bluish. I wonder if they, as I did, imagined them to be Beluga whales swimming through a clean ocean, a happy family, singing, playing. If they did, I hope they felt at least a little of what I feel, a calm sense of awe as warm as sunny rays. If so, I hope they felt a tingle in their fingers and heightened senses, the heady aroma of blooms and the subtle movement of leaves, the way light reflects from both foliage and feathers. For when I tune in to these subtle and many pleasures, these everyday wonders, nature gives to me a quiet joy... and in that moment I am as happy as any queen or king has ever been.
The sky was simply a blue-tinted white that day on the ski hills. It was powder and play all day long. We all got that kind of exhaustion that brings joy, the sort happy-emotion infuse memories are made of.
The morning sky is mostly cloud, deep steel blue-greys that mirror the hues of the highway. Everything is a muted shade, like a matt photograph in a dimly lit room, everything except the tail lights that flow into the heart of the city. They shine like the first berries on winter holly: unabashedly brilliant, scarlet, hypnotic.
The sky is a sombre grey save for the band of salmon pink that hovers over the mountains. The dusky grey peaks give the bottom a jagged edge, whereas the clouds above soothe it with charcoal swirls.
The sky is a thick blanket of fog hovering thirty feet or so from the frigid ground. Branches newly bereft of leaves stretch up toward it, disappearing into the white as it their tips were yet to be painted on the brilliant canvas above.
Today the sky is nothing at all. It's like a child began to draw on it with a pencil and then erased it in a way that smudged and spread the grey. And all the while the rain streaks down, invisible until it hits the sodden ground.
Above the frenetic city hubbub, the honking taxis and swarms of pedestrians marching on their own personal missions the sky was comparatively in slow motion. The movement of the clouds was barely perceptible and even the birds wheeled in slow lazy arcs. But this juxtaposition was lost on the citizens. No-one even looked up. And so the sky above, as pretty as any million-dollar painting slowly darkened to midnight blue, never quite black due to light pollution from below.
The sky was low and dark. The thick cloud, grey as the stone they pulled from the quarry, gave the monochromatic world outside a claustrophobic feel. By this time of day the birds should have been singing and the horizon tinged with reds and pinks, oranges sometimes. But the weather was accountable to no-one and the trip could not be delayed.
The people of Iowa squinted up at the sky, trying to catch a glimpse of color. A cloud-clearing was scheduled for today, to allow the crops to grow without the glare of artificial sunlight and to meet the United Nation’s decree that sunshine was a universal human right. They strained, watching with burning eyes for the plane that would plant the seeds for pulling the thick blanket of smog away from the sky over the cornfields.
“Why, I haven’t seen the sky since I was a young man.” Grandpappy said, shielding his eyes with his hand as a helicopter flew overhead. “Do you know what color it is, Simon?”
“Gray.” I replied, breathing excitedly though my triple-filter. It made a whooshing noise.
“No, no.” he said, shaking his head. “Behind the clouds. Did you ever learn?” He looked upwards, his gray-gilled filter tight against his nose. The cloud-pushers were arriving now, and I shivered with anticipation.
“America accepts the current reality to forge a brighter future.” I recited. “There isn’t any use in trying to learn about the past when we know that we can never have it back.”
“Where did you learn that?” The planes flew in a spiral, now. They shot something into the clouds. A cool wind blew through the cornfields, and I shrugged in response.
“The news, maybe.” Grandpappy went silent for a moment, then turned to me.
“The color was known as ‘blue’.” he said. “We don’t talk about it any more, but that’s what it was.”
“Bloo.” I repeated after him, the sound-shape foreign in my mouth.
“Remember what it looks like, Simon.” he said. “A memory is the one thing they can’t take from you.” The planes spiraled outwards and a hole began to open, shining light downwards onto the vast, dusty fields.
“Will I know it when I see it?” I asked, unsure of what was to come.
“Don’t worry.” he said, and I could see the faint twitches of a smile under his dust mask. “You will.”
It is an endless canvas that colors are tossed upon. Some days it is a pure, uninterrupted blue that stretches seamlessly across my field of vision. When the sun rises, it is a child's painting, bright pinks and oranges piled on top of each other, reflecting off low hanging clouds and filling the world with a haze of wonder. When it storms, the harsh glow of lightning illuminates the gathering piles of dull grey clouds that are angrily pushing against each other. At night, the moon glows, giving the speckle of stars a guide light. The sky is alive, growing at each passing moment, a constant changing canvas for the world to see.
Selina had wished for rain, she's even prayed for it, but when she ran out into the yard the sky above was an unbroken sea of blue. She was crestfallen, not even a wisp of white to pin her hopes on. Now the arena would be a choking cloud of dust, she wouldn't be able to see more than a few yards and the filtering mask would weigh heavy on her face. This day had been set since the day she was born fourteen years ago; it could have been a blanket of dirty cloud promising a storm, it could have been icy drizzle or sleet, it could have been freezing fog. But the sky was unyielding in it's determination to provide no weather at all. Even the shade of blue was uniform in every direction, only punctuated by the winter sun.
The early summer sky was the color of cat vomit.
Of course, Tally thought, you’d have to feed your cat only salmon-flavored cat food for a while, to get the pinks right. The scudding clouds did look a bit fishy, rippled into scales by a high-altitude wind. As the light faded, deep blue gaps of night peered through like an upside-down ocean, bottomless and cold.
The sky, as brilliantly blue as any other summer day, was impervious to the carnage below. It was a cruelty, an evocation of summers past when we were whole and young, not decimated by this senseless conflict, not burying a loved one every other day of the week. It was a reminder too of our mortality and that our great troubles are insignificant to the world. This azure wash above will be here next year and every season to follow whether we were here to witness it or not.
The sky never failed to amaze her, filled with mysteries and endless amounts of space. Over flowing with wonders, yet so much space, so void. The sky was ever-changing, its various colors of navy blue, black, lavender, robin’s egg blue, turquoise, and a fiery tangerine painting the dome above her. Sometimes the clouds were puffy and tall, other times they were no more than mere wisps, dashed across the sky by some divine paintbrush. Sometimes twinkling stars dangled from the heavens, sometimes the luminescent, white moon, and other times the blindingly radiant sun. Elsa observed the stars, wondering just how far away each one was. Sometimes, she caught a brief flash of starlight from a shooting star or the red pulsing lights from a plane or a constant pinpoint of light, sliding across the sky, presumably a satellite. Eventually, the sky lightened before it was illuminated by a brilliant gold.
Above the busy city, the honking of cars and the strolling people, the bright summer sky cloaked the world. It was a ordinary day the candy-floss clouds moved lazily across the sky; the bright sun gleamed brightly forcing people to squint and stare down. Not a drop of rain fell nor a sound of thunder boomed, but all of that was going to change.
When evening came the sapphire sky was turning into midnight black. Suddenly,the clouds burst into tears nearly flooding the ground. BANG! Thunder boomed and lightning struck.The clouds were turning into moth-eaten grey cats. The wailing of the children began as they begged to go home. Just when they feared the storm drains would be overwhelmed, the rain calmed down into a drizzle. Dots of starlight appeared in the sky forming shapes, twinkling brightly and the moon was a glistening orb, bathing their homes in moonlight.
...this blue vault, with the blinding sun pouring from the dome of it.
The canvas of darkened colors stretched over his head, gloriously brilliant in the dipping sun. His heart, caged like a bird in his chest, thrummed with a strange sort of feeling as he saw the clouds vanish into thin wisps and the moon rising in the sky. The ethereal light the budding stars gave off reminded him of iridescent, sweeping rainbows; the moment of stunning epiphany when he'd first gazed into his lover's eyes; the luminescence of a glittering rugged diamond. It was beautiful.
A malevolent sky pressed down on the city, clouds an impervious carpet of grey, translucent blue, azure, cold, vast.
rich blue black, like a furry blanket of richest blue, dotted with cloud, stormy grey, clear, dotted with stars, ethereal blue, scudding clouds, big sky over the plains, rain drenched.