on her face, ocean crashing on the shore where crested breakers race. A silhouette she stands alone, hair tousled by the gale, a lonely woman in the storm, eyeing deaths dark vale. Why am I here? What is it for? the burden of her cry. Nothing cost and little lost if such as I should die. Far voices of the petrels wail in wind and rain, then echo round the bluff and cove the lesson of their pain. Heed the sea, the voices say, and wonder at its ways. It sculpts the rocks and wares the cliffs while carving out the bays. Fearsome when the west winds blow, we tremble at its roar. Yet children dance the golden sand it scatters on the shore. Now look upon its storm lashed face where currents spring from tidal race and billows form a random force without beginning, end or course. No ripple knows what be its role, but minus one there is no whole. All those mighty warrior waves forever charging at the shore, are born of countless tidal slaves that died an unmarked death before. Like tiny servants of the sea, not knowing what our fate may be, nor privy to the great discourse, we must endure and run our course.
