My Head Still Hangs in the Clouds (東平洲 Tung Ping Chau)

I stand at the back of the boat, letting the scene do most of the thinking
for me. The jagged coast
with its rugged panorama won’t let go, but the engines chant
only the chance of a wide-opening sea. Absentmindedly
I watch waves break on inaccessible shores —
over and over — so many waves —
and only the one, short, four-letter word, in English,
for them all. Particular trees rarely distinguish themselves.
What covers these Hong Kong hills is a lush self-centreless green
drawing equally from water, land, and sky
a sane amalgam, staunch in the name of growth
and complemented by rock’s gaunt bone,
rich in its way with echoes and undergalaxies of life,
but still forever-stranger to this animate animal whirl —
look, here it comes now: flat chat billow-bellowing out of Big Indigo
with my very own NEXT DEEP BREATH.