The wind blows hollowly
on this coast with no mean winters
or small hauls to remember

lighthouses to beckon and wreck you.
The seaward hills
unnotched by men

have no fallen fences to vault
no farm machinery
like skeletons rusting dishonourably.

Purple thistles are just spikes,
cowpats harden in silence.
In the purling bay only sun

reminds time has moved on.
Nameless heads weld with sky
the coast crinkles north into haze

channels and inlets push
a billion tonnes of sand forever.
The lucid minds of clouds

the guttural throat of the surf
sucking on sea stacks,
a rock mole that stretches a digit

into infinity, and seems
dwarfed. If a maker
hammered these coves

no foot has trod,
and the ocean won't ruckle
beyond a swell, but rasps

on moonsilver nights
dipping islands in black dye,
that is proper.

Robert James Berry

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