Clouds of Melancholy

Its not the rain that is English melancholy and depression;
we are too subtle to use that,
such obvious bombast best suits Hollywood
and America with its boldness to do and go,
while we,
the English
take our time
lingering in our approach;
for we are the clouds
innocuous in our outward manner
but herald hidden storms,
raging with monstrous thunder
as a bolt breaks what holds our world together,
before returning to uneasy calm
where the sun shines on our backside
mocking our plans and daily lives
until we can take no more,
weeping in darkness away from prying eyes
whether in person
or flowing down the walls in our souls,
with a silver sunlit side of eccentricity
borne out of despair, but too stubborn to let it kill us completely,
it seems that we know that we must suffer
to give a poetic credence to our life
but know that we do not always have to be suffering
or cling to past mistakes like a corpse on a cross;
instead we half remember the cross but do not carry it
as it can become a tiring burden
when the sun finally deigns to shine,
while clouds hang on the periphery to return uninvited;
for the clouds of melancholy are eternal even on a clear day.