I skipped into your waves,
your uncounted fathoms,
taking for granted the inlet imagined.
I dreamt of a compass
when I hadn’t yet found you,
then dreamt an anchor
to dive in and ground you.
Churning, your eyes,
of ocean storm’s thunder,
in them I was swallowed, by them
I am sundered
from the place whence I came,
to this threshold now,
top-bottom,
head-over,
ploughed under the prow.
To your eyes I am fettered,
their tempest blue-black,
caught up in their whirlpool, no chance
to turn back;
though my fingers yet claw
at the chain of events,
your fitful tides havoc,
by them I am spent.
But the storms they shall pass
with the crossing of time,
and a port you’ll call home,
though it may not be mine.
Looking into the distance,
the miles are shortened
by bright noons and sunsets, of
horizons unfortuned.
On the sand may you leave me,
exhausted and weary,
to dream of your storms,
the shadows that bade me
to enter the water for a changeling Nix,
and the chance of his capture
by way of a kiss.