Tide

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Up the shore the rhythmic tide strides. Twice a day, the army marches in succumbing. Then retreats, tail between its legs, discharging Its grip and flooding embrace, releasing, disengaging, It's ebb and flow, a never-ending sleep-breath sigh. The tide's hidden master and conductor is the moon. A general seldom seen leading the troops on the battlefield Rending the tide as irresponsible, willful and unaccountable. A creature wail-fully uncaring, inconsiderate, wayward in consequence. In the woe betide comes, seeping into the castle moats and holes dug by kids Flushing away the fun of seashore frolics, dampening the joy and the shrill of beach laughter reminding us that there has to be a morning after, After the coming, someone, not me has to clean up the mess and ebb to bed.

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