The morning mist stirs gently over rocks and over sea,
Textured swirls of fairy floss, ethereal tranquility.
But beneath this fluffy cover the surging waters hide;
Repressed though rampant, savage, the eternal flowing tide.
Incessant, but infertile, a surrogate sublime,
The mother of all life on earth, but none of direct line.
Trapped by land and surface tension, it struggles to be free
Elastic, plastic, deforming; molding to reality.
This great primordial soup swells and ebbs with pregnancy,
Perpetually in motion, giving birth to expectancy.
Then as if in silent Blitzkrieg, the sky explodes in hues,
Casting colours on the water, now the mist must pay its dues.
Rushing, trapped in vortices, excited by the light,
Chaotic and yet synchronised, it disintegrates in flight
Leaving bare the torrid ocean to fight the sun alone,
Pounding out its anger and frustration against stone
With all its might and energy, until it learns with dread,
That for all its might and energy it really is quite dead.
Then upon the tide some dolphins glide, bringing life and bringing fun
Bringing to fulfilment the promise of the rising sun.
circa 14 March 1990