by Dave Migman
in mirror of the sky moored boats, silent
on the island, the trees hold a cuckold song through
the distant wails of gulls.
around the waters an impossible landscape, the exclamation
of harsh geological forces shifting these old mountains,
Ben Lomond, Ben Vorlich,
flanks patched by cloud
heather streaked by invading grasses
budding cones of new plantations.
staring at the canvas
trying to see.