She clambers o’er weed slimy rocks, anguish
on her face, ocean crashing on the shore
where crested breakers race. A silhouette
she stands alone, hair tousled by the gale,
a lonely woman in the storm, eyeing
death’s dark vale. “Why am I here? What is it
for?” the burden of her cry. “Nothing cost
and little lost if such as I should die.”
Far voices of the petrels wail in wind
and rain then echo round the bluff and cove
the lesson of their pain. “Heed the sea,” the
voices say, ”and wonder at its ways. It
sculpts the rocks and wears the cliffs while carving
out the bays. Fearsome when the west winds blow,
we tremble at its roar. Yet children dance
the golden sand it scatters on the shore.
Now look upon its storm lashed face
where currents spring from tidal race
and billows form a random force
without beginning end or course.
No ripple knows what be its role
but minus one there is no whole.
All those mighty warrior waves
forever charging at the shore
are born of countless tidal slaves
that died an unmarked death before.
Like tiny servants of the sea,
not knowing what our fate may be
nor privy to the great discourse
we must endure and run our course.