the sailor with abalone pearls for eyes
lives off the éirinn main.
he breathes
cat-footed fog, and speaks
in windowpanes of rain.
the sailor, navy cap pulled low
over a face of storms,
is bitter cold in his collars (at the station)
and (on the train) is warm.
the windows swim over folded hands
like seals about the rock
that the capped and collared sailor dwells
upon, close to the dock.
meandering
along the tracks,
hands in pockets, disembark.
slow-paced visits into town,
an apple,
beer,
home before dark.
home
to light the beacon white.
home
where seals lament.
home
to lean on metal railings
at the top of the lighthouse, silent.
far out, far out, things alive
are warring and weaving beneath the greys.
doldrums to the east,
currents
move west, past trenches, where the graveyard lays.
and the sails that make the sky
come furling.
downwards, brilliant and curling.
the sailor casts one look, a last,
thumbs lifted,
misted breaths go curling.
steps sounding
down the staircase spine
of hollow lighthouse tower
and rain comes sinking
from salted skies
like fleets of buoy cloud, cold bower.
sulfurous, white rivulets
run wild over the swollen skies.
they open up. the sea drinks in.
and louder grow the selkie's cries.
