Galiano’s Arbutus

Galiano’s Arbutus

•

At a house on Galiano,

red arbutuses line the shore;

undressing, now, they lead

the looker down from the wood porch

to the island's edge, lean over it

into the wind – the wind whose salty skin presses against mine

and against their naked limbs,

the wind whose fiery tongues

lick the ocean's skin

into oneness with themselves –

liquid mountains running over and urging into shore

again, and again.

•

The September sun’s sedating,

even through the window;

the trees are glowing yellow

like beloveds of the light,

the light that unveils Saltspring on the landscape's higher line –

it is closer than they say –

the light whose look reminds me

of the way your eyes unveiled me

behind an ocean's skin

as your island limbs reached out to mine,

then leaned into our longing,

again, and again.