Sound Seen

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.