isle of arran

i.

the underneath of this pine
has knuckles. kneads

my yard’s grassy pottery
when unfolding clouds

blend into lofty eights

ii.

inside, my fleeting cat,
diffuses through jam-jars

and bathtub. like sunday,
eyes full of fruity sorrow

and more alive here
than any surface infinity.

iii.

for all their sockets, tides
do not lock simply. we leave

our calloused yard for hours
take the slippy path which

pockmarked with cavities
falls away into the water.

iv.

you at least are
fine-tuned by this spell.