TROUT   [4] 

Robert James Berry: [1, 2,  3, 4, 5]
 
Cape
**for Ahila**
 
  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   

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