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.


and you

staring at the canvas

trying to see.