On an afternoon of fog
around my Skye House overlook
I invite you: sit at my table.
Watch a tantric monotony
of clouded light over deep waters,
smoothing pools of wake
flecked by ferries.
Harbors scoop the dark-furred hills.
Heavens hang in wisps
feathering lavender down
to brush blue-clouded mountaintips,
powdering deep nipples on the breasts of islands.
Tugboats look like work,
their jutting prows like
misshapen mutant bulldog jaws
hauling behind them over the grey silk
bracelets of diamond,
snagged jewels of light
dripped and dragged from a barge
slim as a sandal
in the channel's silver path.