The tide comes in, a predictable alarm call.
The battered and faithful boat wakes up from the slumber of its sand encumbered bed
The fisherman, a salty fellow, sets sail racing the raucous gulls who make
A cacophony of noise like beggar children at play
While below the mirror surface, disorientated fish fruitlessly seek shelter from the familiar fate from above
Fortunately they\'re bereft of the awareness of numbers, else panic would become fear
A terrible thing to taste
The nets are cast like whirling dervishes through skillfully sculpted hands
Fairies momentarily tattoo upon the seas amebous body before absorbing away into translucency, waiting.
Then, patiently trawled and gratefully laden the boat sets homeward dancing its jig upon the sea feeling slightly taller than it was
No one will grow hungry today.