Shoal

The Quiet Shoal

In the low‑light hush of a moon‑kissed cove,
A shoal lies ballast, shyless, still—
A mass of silvery figures, veined, they'd rove,
Panoramic though they clutch the sea so still.

The waves creep over them like gull‑winged lips:
They blush, they glide, they sway in sync,
Each echo a whisper on the brimming tides,
The dark wood of water, their mapped emoji‑ink.

Beneath the surface, a silver tangle grows;
A web of fate that's colour‑bright and bent:
They shift like plankton under the star‑swaying glow,
A caravan of life they habitally rent.

The shoal, a compass marking safe return,
A homing beacon for the clashing hull,
Where lighthouses sweep the horizon stern,
And fishers hold their nets athwart the lull.

And in the distant shore, the sand‑topped coinstone,
With gull‑feathered cries that test the wind,
Lies the ocean’s memory, a finned own‑stone,
In human hearts they live, unseen, blasphemously pinned.

So honour that shoal—this quiet freight—
For its history in wavy rhyme,
Keep on the deck, the tide‑creek’s stalwart state,
That the shoal a testament to the sea’s chime.