Strange tides do quell in the currents.
The breaks go on into a swirl of tepid bubbles,
It rises. In and out and further and closer.
The changing patterns forming on shredded shells,
Painted rocks.
Never the same, as the last waves feast,
Froth writing new truths into old formed canvases.
Everything moves into the same.
Yet none are identical.
Another wave comes.
Lily Portman 