Sometimes the currents are enraged.
Waves travel from heat through ice,
To crash against land’s damp sands.
Sometimes, when the morning breathes quiet,
The water carries birdsongs,
Patterns of light and music
Lapping on edgeless warmth.
All forms of tide are still tide
Reaching and bowing
Under the gaze of the moon.
Rock, beach or shingle,
All are shoreline,
Where borders are not demarcated,
But danced upon,
Making a violent or soft,
But always fluid, improvisation.