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