Rising Tide

The ocean stirs, a distant, quiet call,

As though the water listens, over all.

The low tide's secret places, kissed and dry,

Await the great return beneath the sky.

A whispered surge, a rumor on the stones,

The sea begins to gather what it owns.

It creeps along the footprints on the sand,

And takes them back with a slow, patient hand.

A silver line advances on the beach,

A tireless flood that waits for what it can reach.

Each wavelet crests and falls with measured might,

A gentle conquest in the afternoon light.

The rock-pools, once a world contained and small,

Now feel the tumbling, rising ocean's thrall.

And with the turning of this world-wide key,

The shore surrenders to the coming sea.