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 burning acrid spitting

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.

© Robert James Berry

School of Humanities

University of Science Malaysia (USM)

11 800 Minden

Penang

West Malaysia