Wibble Wobble Jellyfish, upon the sand an opaque dish.
With spokes so fine, it brings to mind the iris of an eye.
Or a precious gem, with a scalloped hem, catching the evening sun.


The receding tide it could not ride, it settled one last time.
It’s beauty as it lies still,  is all apparent and without thrill.
The Medusas' movement quenched, without it's soupy brine.


Above the grains of a sandy shore, it’s year of life is now no more.
How does it feel to dry so slow. Is there pain I'd like to know.
It's pulsing movement’s at its best, are over, it has comes to rest.


Will it be aware, on the turn of the tide, it's form will take its last ride.
It's billowing cloak and slick design shall not flutter another time
Lions mane so long you say, for another year you flow away.