January At Jupiter Point

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Gone away is the sun today,
behind the gray-veiled comforter clouds,
which descend to tenderly touch
the cold, steel gray waters,
far out to where the place
called No Horizon is;
punctuated by whiter shades
of successive gray boats,
moored to bobbing buoys,
devoid of summer’s color,
but for the incessant gray
that once shouted white,
upon the blue-green.


Dreadfully gray is today,
as if the artist, blind,
with but one paint on his palette,
had begun again with gray gulls
sailing out of the god-help-us gray fog,
resting tranquil for a time,
upon weathered gray, planked piers,
looking out on stepping stone stretches
of cornflower-blue boat covers;
memories of warmer garden months;
one is reminded of reflections
of a Bahamian sky,
which isn't there.
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