The wind tosses her hair into the air, pale yellow in the grey light,
As she sits upon the shifting rocks,
Black and grey from far away,
Though with hints of dark green and midnight blue upon closer inspection.
Her thin, pale arms wrap around her thin, pale legs,
Bare despite the frigid air
And knife sharp wind
And the needle-stinging spray of the sea.
The waves pound in her ears,
Breaking against the black rocks, the grey rocks
Slowly turning to sand,
As she watches, sea blue eyes, watching.
The tide grows ever bolder,
Creeping towards her with every wave,
Foam from the mouth of some ancient being
Cresting the top of the surf.
Clouds churn above her,
Grey and white and dark with rain,
Hinting that the dreary day
Is something more, more than just a dreary day.
Rocks clatter against the hooves of a white horse,
Pure and proud and brilliant against the dreary grey day.
Upon his back sits astride
A man in blue, sea blue, ocean green, cloud grey.
His eyes find her, sitting on the rocks,
And he slips to the ground, without a sound.
His black hair dances in the wind as he advances across the rocks
Without a sound.
My child, he says.
She says, My Lord.
The exchange quiet and simple and worn,
The exchange of old friends with tired traditions.
He extends his hand, rough and tanned
And she takes it, slender pale fingers like twigs
Compared to his sailor’s hands,
Smooth white skin against rough brown skin.
He pulls her to her feet, her bare feet,
And though soles like pale sheets of tissue,
She does not wince from the sharp rocks underneath,
As they glide across towards the raging sea.
They stand, together, against the might of the sea,
Watching the waves and wind and foam,
Tossed towards the skies,
The dreary, grey, skies.
He raises his hand, and she follows suit,
And the waves roar, rise to greet them,
And the creatures of the sea rise from the sandy depths
To greet their lord and lady.
So that they might understand, he says,
My child is young, my child is frail.
Her every step shadowed by darkness.
