Surf is a sculptor
more brutal, more endearing
than me.

Whether she grouts the coast with a
billion tonnes of sand

or bevels islands to
balance in the straits

she's always serene.

When the surf is flat, moon-silver
stars incubate overhead,
wetas can dream.

The skinniest creek
wending out of myth
meets the clout of a god
on the coast.

Bizarre then, that palaeontology
shan't cherish her energy

but will prize a posthumous head of sea-flax
for all time.

Robert James Berry

If you've any comments on this poem, Robert James Berry would be pleased to hear from you.