Now in the yawning of the year
Adjust the dial and tune in to hear,
These waves, humming Rockall, Malin, Hebrides
“The forecast is moderate or good
Becoming pitch perfect, pitch dark”
Beneath the sleet and the surface,
Bubbles like liquid clues,
Trace a Selkie’s steps.
His fins bandaged in neoprene,
Eyes stinging; adjusting to the salt and the green
What does it smell like, this sea?
What does it sound like, this depth?
What does it taste like, this cold?
Like kings, queens and urchins suspended in brine,
Treasure tugging on a weighted line
Head bowed, nuzzling the coral
Veering northwest, out of the blue
Pushing up, up, with a yuletide haul
And inhaling the new rapture
Of a winter’s deep midnight