The mackerel cuts out early
from its silver ribbon school,
to swim swiftly and surely
towards a coastal tidal pool.
Floating in the shallows
above the starfish and the clam,
she stares (eyes as wide as owl's)
for the horizon of the land.
Somewhere on that shore, I'm sure
a child sits unaware
that the sea, so wise, so pure,
mirrors her probing glare.
I also sit digging my toes
into the sand of my soul's beach.
I wonder what secrets it knows
and watch waves I'll never reach.
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