In that Pink
Carnival sun sinks,
into a bed of lilac.
Everything out here is so
To the foot this island is gently rounded,
charged with just enough altitude,
to make a heart pound
with the effort of walking
The heart’s eye only
cares about colour.
sky-blue, enough for a Dutchman’s britches
shimmering greens up to a rusty lip.
It takes note too of tiny speedwell,
deep fox den,
A sky view shows
little depth to tidal rivers
gradations of ochre and henna
a slim channel of blue-bottle
now all silted in
where tall ships once passed through
Shaped by wind and water
the land tends to a rolling flatness,
a constant performance sculpture.
This, a band of borrowed beauty
in that pink
between sky and sea.