You dress yourself up
in your very best, then
let your chiselled features
knock me out.
Why do this to me
on my final day?
Every bend in the road is
a gentle inquiry of my thigh; I’ll be
in the ditch if you offer another hill,
that deep rolling over westwards,
softening to its soft powdery browns,
lightening to a gouache of greys.
The wind has dropped. Tonight,
every lake is stencilled,
every inlet inlaid. Wormadale
is glorious; Whiteness, Binnaness,
Kalliness, every one a point of land so near,
bidding me come, step across.
No, I will not disturb a thing.
If I as much as breathe
it will all shatter.
Waas to Watsness is