A Seaside Meeting

The tide that rises foams to flood,

and spends its waves upon the shore,

yet still returns, like circling blood,

inclines it to the heart once more.

See how he moves in liquid seas,

the water-born with bended knees!

And if he nimbly pierces waves,

it's all because he's water-made.

You'd almost think he'd learned to breathe

beneath the rolling surface foam,

that he would name the sea his home

and live in waves that him enwreathe.

But though he dwells in landlocked tent,

cool water's yet his element.

With her proud tail and regal form

she glides so daring near the beach,

but though the waves are soft and warm,

no heat into her heart will reach.

For she's decreed with iron will

to never trust the ocean's swill.

She's learned the great sea's terrors well,

and seen kind waves become a hell.

And yet she cannot help but rise

to seek the sunny surface bright,

for she's a one that loves the Light,

exults in sunny, starry skies.

Tail churning now in antic order,

she draws so near the foamy border.

A fisher stands beside the shore

and tests his nets with expert hands,

but spies a thing he's not before

when he looks out across the sands:

She sits among the ragged rocks

and runs a hand through graceful locks.

She lightly sings into the air

a haunting song that makes him stare.

The water-born with bended knees

appears to surface by the stone

and bright eyes, his to hers they shone.

Such silence stills the whirling breeze

they laugh to hear the fisher's wish,

"I only want to catch a fish!"