The soothing music of the waves,
Swimming softly through my ears,
As they lovingly lap the rocks,
These jagged lichen-patterned cities,
Where Oisín left for the Land of the Young.
No Golden Lady astride her steed,
Waits to cross the turquoise plains.
We must make do with our mortal realm,
Of nettles and thorns and lonely roads.
A realm where the end is all that we know.
As you stand there, my selkie,
And long for the salty water,
I yearn to rip the skin from me,
And join you in a form not truly my own,
Leave behind the empty husk of my past.
Like the brothers that Oisín left behind,
The world around me, I fear, has died,
More likely, I am dead to them.
The ghost of a shadow in the shade,
Waiting for the waves to wash me away.