by Greg Huteson
The curiosity of stones
above gray-banded surf,
so neatly swept by tides
with driftwood flecks and shells.
The queerly quilted blues and grays
of cloud cover. The slipperiness
of cold fish—and how strange that most
are ovals somewhat flat or slim!
The oddity of bays that curve,
as each bay does. There is no square
cove or inlet or convex port.
The clean lines of a seagull—
always either one wedge or two.
Fragmented light on the ocean,
the seabound horizon’s round edge.
Any and all of these are marvels
and signs of order for villagers
by the sea, fisherfolk.
Each of them is a symbol
of a certain tidiness
that fish guts, tsunamis, typhoons,
cries of “Man overboard!”
and tyrannous captains can’t quite dispel.
Greg Huteson has an M.A. in English literature from the College of William and Mary. His poems have appeared in the Christian Century, the Saint Katherine Review, and other journals. For most of the past twenty years, he has resided in Taiwan and China and his poems often reflect these contexts.
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