Shoreline's rising tide;
seaweed upon the strand,
staining black the rocks
between ebb and neap.
Boats lie moored here alee,
some floating; others weighing
at anchor; buoyed
by transverse waves,
whose sonance now
reaches my ears.
Who knew, the moons
subtle hand had pulled,
not only upon the gathering sea, ( oceans net )
but lifted all the ships too,
so that one, alone,
slipped its reigns;
ironically freed
by gravities' wake?
Ignorant were we,
racing in the spray
and swimming out
to those crafts there,
as our end.
We knew not,
that the knots had frayed
and that we, like it,
were adrift in the bosom
of the boundless sea.
Getting no closer,
yet further away
from home, we move in
an imperfect asymptote.
Unaware that our aim
too is loose, as we both
drift heedlessly
toward that place
where sea and sky
meet as one.
