Renee Blanchette

In that Pink

Carnival sun sinks,
lurid,
into a bed of lilac.

Everything out here is so
smooth.

To the foot this island is gently rounded,
charged with just enough altitude,
to make a heart pound
with the effort of walking
over it.

The heart’s eye only
cares about colour.
Mossy trees,
sky-blue, enough for a Dutchman’s britches
shimmering greens up to a rusty lip.
It takes note too of tiny speedwell,
bird’s claw,
deep fox den,
crab shell
and needles.

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.

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