Pacific or Not

Pacific or not, the skies of my heart are coloured by
     the sea. Colour of doves, they bunch like fleece.
They call to their reaches muslin and linen.
They rain.
Blackened, they go, some mornings, all the hues to blue.

The landscape of my heart breathes trees, and under them,
     mosses, creeks, trillium.
Basalt uplifts and snow make a year of advances
     and of retreats.
Thus the waters of the landscape of my heart
ice the hands that cup them. and for the love of trout
     fed caddis and mayflies,
and offer for maniacal salmon gravel, cascades and
     pools: leaves drift, wet pebbles shine.
Breeze through shade is balm.

The air of my heart is fog, is dew and clear, wood smoke,
     salt and wet. Its notes fill my ears.
It colors fire, blooms roses and apples,
and warms the slumped naps of summer afternoons.

Muddy roiling, a river arriving, a river going away,
bridges make the cities of my heart.
Walking over, we pause, some of us: we lean on our arms
     and look.

And as for the people of my heart, of only a few
     do I know their names
and they know who they are.

By Lex Runciman, from Starting From Anywhere