I sing a song of the sea,
not where mighty pirates be,
but of the place beneath.
Where waves gently roll,
but do not crash upon,
the sandy sheath of shore.
But upon the shoal of more,
where the waters gently pour,
they call the coral reef.
A place beyond belief,
where motion in myriad color,
steal the sun's rays like a thief.
A rainbow relief of hiding places,
where iridescent fishes races,
to the waves’ rhythmic beat.
A feeding frenzy of fashion,
played out in sharp relief,
like the rumba's undulating heat.
Where rays sway and octopuses play,
morays lay in ambush wait,
and sharks snatch a treat..
From some unknown disease,
the coral's colors are fading,
like bright cloth in the sunny breeze.
Soon, coral's song will be silent,
like the buzzing of the bees,
and the bird call in the trees.
So lift a conch shell to your ear,
and listen to the sound you hear.
The dying coral is calling near.
To cast spore upon the waves,
someday long ago and far away,
new coral will grow from its graves.
In the sunlight of the sea.
Copyright 2008 © Ronald W. Hull