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’…

Advertisements