Salt Island

               I wanted to make a gothic of it all:
the trees on the slope where the island dipped
               into the sea, their weird kinks & angles;
the scrap of wool where a sheep had rubbed
               a flank against a tree’s arthritic fingers;
the cloud-quilt which was then breaking-up
               as though someone had pulled
the one thread which held the whole clump 
               of vapors in place. I walked over
the hill with my kilt flapping
                                                    & thought,
               Wow! all this for me? &
the weather just kept getting better, 
               rescinding its earlier threats of rain.
The mood was ruined; I wanted ice cream.
               In the photographs I scroll through now,
in bed a week later, I see that my red tartan
               clashed with the grass so perfectly
I wonder if I intended to be the punctum,
               the little rip in the surface
where my eye might snag. It is too
               early to tell if I’ve succeeded
& too early in the morning—the sun
               not yet visible behind the hills—
to tease out what it means when all this naming, 
               of the island, wool, sheep, trees & clouds,
is just another way of saying I, I, I, I, I