She is whole but sharded into islets

thoughts of her, colours of memories


here, banks are imbroglios of water and shore;

spiked imprecisions of reeding cloud things


slow, deep estuaries pass:

now the archipelago is just right, jigsaw-pinned


a noonday tropical sun burns

a hemisphere exact with harsh pinpoint vision


such waters have liquid glass purity,

are as cold as cracking teeth, the blue of lightning’s freezure


too clear for an eyesight’s flight of reality;

the flawing of gemstones, idealness


stiller than when a ghost touches a lung’s parcel of air

Just a postcard of the mind…kinda thinking it should have been called ‘Archipelago’…