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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
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
© Copyright 1997, 2019, The Fairfield Review Inc., All Rights Reserved.
Document last modified on: 01/06/2007