Robert James Berry

Evening bleeds red
Into the skin the pores of the sky

Night's head is bent towards the slow wash of the sea
Her feet moving over the gravel

The Channel bills the land
The tide turns a shingled hand over the
Blue chin and black stubble of the sand

The salt grass old thorny bushes
and sudden crimson flowers
of the dunes
Then damp open scrub

Houses built here
Dark peat and kindle backed up
Driftwood burningacridspitting

In all our homes
The heavy animal sound of the ocean's rollers
smothers us.

If I press with my fingers in the dark
They shall leave no mark.


The 2River View, 3_1 (Fall 1998)