Here tales conceive and become,

Like the eels in the slate waters

There are rough silent watchers

in the insides of hills

The ache of north is in the sleet

The giant thews of basalt

The Skerries are the Ocean's

teeth torn up by the roots

Their wind skins you all night

This is the cape of cloud,

Frontier of ice

Motion me back

I am one of this tribe

I have writing to make

---

©1998 by Robert James Berry

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