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By Robert James Berry Up sheltered inlets is a languid floating world; backwaters far from the coast's thunder a shunned landscape beyond the big statements of beach and headland, the island sprinkled sea that is this north. Below root rafts the tide traps silt, reclaims land, makes more brown views adding to the estuarine smell, impeding the sea. Breathing roots push up sticky thumbs that also have a fruity decomposing smell like bee pollen that will be infinitely oppressive all summer. In the river mouth mudcrabs drill holes; spire snails and necklace seaweed conduct themselves more secretly than the ancestral world. If a crake booms, it could be the old tongue woken; a swollen knuckle of mangrove wood is always about death. For this spongy other land inscribes symbols of all the old horrors. © Copyright 2004, Robert James Berry, All Rights Reserved |
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Document last modified on: 01/06/2007