Silvery slivers sail the seas

in tides of current flowing;

those little fins, your tiny wings,

propel you fast forgoing

all the worry, all the pain, all the pause obtained

by sitting on dry land;

where gravity and time let free

sift my thoughts like sand.

You fly in clouds of kith and kin

a school of bond connected;

In a single motion borne from one

you dance as one collected.

Oh shape and shine in dance you dine,

the richness of seas bestow;

Calypso sings you hear the tune,

in bubbles a melody you blow.

What quiet sigh or secret shiver

shall I perform alone,

so opening my eyes I see arise

my school of fish, my own?

who in a movement matching mine

will shout in choirs croon;

engulf my ears and drop the sand,

I hear the sea nymph’s tune.

A schooling fish has many a wish,

each one for a fellow of its kind;

In your group of many, your school of plenty

I need but one to bind.

From that silvery mass you need not give me the class

for in pairs we humans do dance;

To feel the warmth in the cold pacific

I need but once romance.

Piercing! Horn blows that trawlers trill!

My reverie is gone;

The sun shines down and I am all alone,

to present I am drawn,

And from the beach, beyond my reach,

the vessels barbed and armed,

are heading out to probe the depths

and leave Calypso harmed.

Her curling waves bash hardy hulls

but nothing will disuade

the fishing boats, the manmade fleet,

from coming home fish weighed.

Despite the oceans width and depth

the nets do not abide;

and crushing in like manmade jaws

nothing is denied.

Her tune is drowned by buzzing screws

that fade to empty seas;

No silver flash, no shivering mass,

no bubbles on the breeze.

So on my beach I sit by each

thought that piles around;

The cold wind blows and I feel my bones

I am run aground.

Taken from the hardy seas

can each sardine contain,

the secret to the natural tune?

the triumph of warmths reign?

“Wild Sardines” the tin it screams

in olive oil they lie;

Born free in nature: innate wildness,

their prison I pull and pry.

“Wild Sardines” the fish they dream

a whispered wish to djinn;

From proud descriptor to mocking indicator

of lost life that had been.

But no kind spirit, no singing tune

arose from that dead creature;

Its warmth of kin and singing grin

had faded in the tin.

Perhaps the next shall hold the clue

to the dancing song for two;

So on I go, more tins I rate

to find my fish of fate.