THE RETURN OF THE WHALE

The whale returns.
The white, the red,
the purple or the marine blue;
we fought the weather under all the shades.
My boat swayed as I abandoned the mooring
to step onto the precarious raft.
The whale, elusive, dark, ducked under waters
deeper, richer with the knowledge of its vulnerable light,
a light the whale could not hide;
it had to be carried till the end of the tide.
The whale was my mentor I hunted
for food or vengeance--
I did not know.
And the whale did not know when that moment had come and gone;
 that moment when I transcended the passion to kill
and fell in love with the endurance, the will,
the light and the passion for the life under the sea.
Away from the rage and the fury,
there was a life of stillness
when the moon reached under the billowing waves
and brought to me a vision of something I wished to cherish--
the whale sleeping, swayed by the sea,
a gentle cradle, a tranquil sleep
and whatever would happen in that bliss
the whale was going to accept in peace.
In that moonlight I dropped the rage.
I loved the moon; I loved the whale;
and when the morning came,
with the morning came back the whale to me,
peaceful, silent, swimming with the tide.
I took back the oar; I returned to the shore.