At tides return, with dawn, he mourned

Upon the pier, where she did fall

No peace, no hand, could lift his storm

Wounds deep did stain his heart and all

Bereft, John Lake, his mind now set

Did turn to walk into the sea

Until some face with frown had said

Please sir would you perchance help me?

One lad his wife had helped before

Like this poor waif on surf and sand

Dirt-face, bright-eyed, quite lost and poor

He held out his sunburned, small hand

He fed this boy, all bones and skin

And draped a cloak around his frame

Then took him home to live with him

And gave to him, his life and name

(for prompt #7)