It doesn’t conjure frothing foam,

and sends it overseas

In cascading walls of turquoise blue,

and ink-pen bleeds of green.

Nor does it beckon onlookers,

who seek to meet the sky

After spasms of pounding waves,

amongst a battle cry.

It doesn’t smell of summer breeze,

and driftwood splashed ashore

It lacks percussive symphonies,

as ice-white torrents roar.

I won’t see, when I gaze ahead,

a million sapphire blues

Instead within ripples of tranquil river,

In my reflection is you.