The ebb tide etched a herringbone on the beach last night.

Its paint a pulver of a million herring's bones

Dissolved in the vastness of the sea in which they swam.

Their traces now light enough to float

And come to light roiling in the surf

Perceived by neither gravity, eagle eye nor passersby

But drifting like an ink within the tide, 

Which slowed to observe some random thing.

And in that slowing were released to human eye,

Laid down as a perfect carpet rime

Of geometric proportion, harmony and rhythm,

On which a child, rising early, played

Plowing the tapestry beneath the sand

Before the shadows disappeared 

And mother called her in for lunch.

 © Philip Knight 2018