The Selkie

The lights from port are drowning out

My view of the roiling sea,

They shimmer and twinkle

So beautifully -

But I know I do not belong.

I watch the ships sometimes,

Far out, ploughing an ocean furrow,

And I wonder if my true place,

Is as the figurehead upon the prow.

My hair hangs in tendrils

Around my spectral face,

Like strands of kelp, washed up

On a cold, forsaken beach.

I sit on my legs until they are numb

And envision how it might be,

To have a streamlined tail again,

Instead of these aching feet.

So I will wait landlocked, alone,

Restlessly gazing out to sea,

While the depths continue

To call me home.