An island is one great eye gazing out
the poet once said, an image I like
for its stubbornness, solitude’s drought
holding firm before the garrulous strike
of water’s insistence. Say you hike
the fell of yourself to this clear summit,
become its focused pupil, childlike
to rediscover the wholly private
needn’t mean the selfish or desolate.
Night blurs, as fields of waves far around
vanish, replaced by clear-eyed planets
and stars opened to all without a sound.
Lie down, till down is up and up down,
you’ll find yourself verb instead of noun.
