selkie (from a cabin by the sea at midnight)
night brings silver light upon the surface of the sea; waves whisper lilting verses to the shore through the darkness and not too far off, in a cottage of stone with windows glowing yellow and soft, a child listens and understands. their hair is wild and their eyes are tired and they know nothing but the words the breakers call, calling to them and promising safety within their lullabies. come, over the sand, beneath the salt. you’re safe here.
wood is soft beneath the child’s feet, worn from decades of salt spray and covered with lichen. sand is warm and welcoming between their toes and the ocean is tangible, closer as they move faster, closer, faster, closer, stop. here she is, the sea – she speaks calmer and the child breathes easier as the water swells to their ankles and tugs. come, beneath the salt. be safe. knees, hips, waist, calmer, calmer. lullabies or incantations in the ocean’s words, a melding of flesh and bone together, calm. passages of light filter silver and quivering through the surface upon the selkie’s head. the ocean speaks around them and through them: you are safe here.
daybreak brings buttery light upon the surface of the sea; waves whisper lilting verses to the shore through the sunrise and not too far off, in a cottage of stone with windows glowing yellow under the new sun, a child sleeps and smiles. their hair is wild and crisp with salt and their eyes are closed and they listen as the breakers call to them. we will meet again soon.
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