This land describes a long sand curve Towards eternity. Coast, that waves have thought over And wiped clean, Where no one walks Save a seldom, strenuous seabird. Look inland. That world is a pool of ink. On the nocturnal shoulders of the world, Black firs observe an everlasting silence. Safer is our fishing town that clings to the shore, like a young marsupial to its mother. From the green beacon that is the harbour light, A shag is hanging two pterodactyl wings to dry, Grey sentry, dishevelled seafarer, Watching the night drop anchor. Away on the seaboard Squid boats burn like vesper candles, Gone to fish a wide school of stars, Sailing the telescope of a sea- captain sharp as a skerry, Stood at the bow windows of the retired sailors' home, A poet who plays with creation As he paints the ocean indigo, Building the dark like a cairn.
Robert James Berry