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          By Robert James Berry

          A comma of sand out in Patiki Bay
          beyond the mudbanks, rust brown bush
          the broken bottles and glamorous
          wash-ups low tide gifts us,

          the creek nudging its blunt head
          into the gulf
          where a wader exercises his
          supreme disdain

          for the other life making a ragged earning
          out of this mud.
          The sea has engineered flat rocks
          to shore up the point;

          the washed stones sing
          where I sit and interpret the gulf's
          ineffably blue dialogues,
          with the tide sweeping in.

          © Copyright 2004, Robert James Berry, All Rights Reserved

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Document last modified on: 01/06/2007

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