Salt crystals settle on my clothes
my hair, my skin
wind-whipped eye-lashes
open ajar
only to shut
as the next squall hits
When I breathe
I inhale unknown sorcery
older than the tree that floats us
but young enough to play
with straying minds
And looking down
I see white horses bucking
beneath the foam
graceful, gallant protectors
at the gates of Tír na nÓg
I tip my hat
as beckoning hands
and seaweed glances
peel out in whisps
With them I won’t grow old
or care about the cold
tears turn to salt
and tresses into gold
The next wave
looks like a mountain
it steals my thought
the moon trickles
a river
all the way
to my left sock
