On the edge of this island farm, a crinkled, indigo ocean waits
below massive mountains that rise into snow-capped ridges,
like Samurai swords, slicing the blue with ice-pick white
defining the border where earth and sky meet.
Eagles, gulls and terns circle and swoop
as sunlight catches and flashes on their wings,
their cries falling high above the fog horn’s moan
disappearing like shadows in gossamer mists;
You can’t see them, even though they are there.
You know, but knowing isn’t enough.
All you can see are tussocked rows of lavender and green
perspective points of view on this land at your feet.
Lines merging, and lost in the brilliant fog,
they tempt one to enter and stroke
the soft, yielding heads of mauve
knowing this is their moment
stealing the mountain’s glory
like purple Prima Donnas
