That rocky shore,
that hair of bladderwrack,
that crash of whitecaps, that's
where the Hags dwell, those
mad old women who want
more than they can get;
the in-between place,
between the sea
and the shore,
not either
or
both
but neither;
the undefined
hesitation is their lair.
(They can't be contented
but they abide.)
Their laughter is like music
to young girls who want
to swim in the roiling
seas and be wilder
and more
cunning
and FREE;
and so we walk
along the shore and we
laugh too and take deep breaths
of that fresh salt-laden air and
though we might not believe
the promise of their offer
we still daydream of
walking into that
water and
letting
our
long hair
become bladderwrack
and sinking down among
the rocks and the tide pools
and the starfish and the
periwinkles and letting
our voices become
their voices
and
singing
forever to the sea.
September 3, 2026
