The open sea

If to have visions 
Upon smooth lakes 
And those above do wake 
Do wake to see 
Is not the fish but one 
In the light of golden sun? 
Is not the tree that grows  
The piece for carvers bows? 
And the winds 
How do they breeze and gale 
Upon an ocean going sail? 
And is not the master  
And his serf 
Deserving of their woven tale? 
O being 
Winds do come and go 
And natures balancing 
Whilst in gales and breeze,
Mortals, 
Mortals sing and shout  
In harmony 
And lakes so smooth must wake 
To spill the open sea