They tell a tale by the sea of a woman who wanders the shores at night, singing to her lost lover-but I hear your name in the silence, Annie, and I see your face in the moonlight as your eyes beseech a dead man. They say her hair is as the seaweed itself, and her gown like the foam on the sand. When she calls for him they say the waves catch her voice, and send her plea for miles. On a cold winter night his name echoes and flows in eddies and tides, ghosting with the fog over rank fishing boats while she dances slowly to the sound of her grief. I hear your voice in the water, Annie, and I feel your tears in the salt of the water, and I know you are mad, as mad as they come.
For it is not with my eyes that you see the water, nor with my ears that you hear the gulls cry. My eyes cannot see his golden-brown hand, stretching out like the toss of a wave. My ears cannot hear his voice, low on the wind and deep, soft, whispering Come to me, come—take my hand. My love, come dance with me. My skin does not feel the cold prickle of phantom kisses and mist-borne caresses. I know what you reach for, when you wade deep into the inky swells and when the fury of madness crashes down against your small, unbending frame. You love a victor- You are damned by survival and more damned by death. Is it any wonder that you are mad, as mad as they come?
For they tell a tale by the sea of a woman who left the shores at night, no longer content to sing to her lost lover. They say she took no boat, but a basket instead—a small babe cradled within. They say she waded into sea, and the white of her gown rose around her as the foam from a wave. With a gentle lullaby, the basket washed safe to shore-but one of the two turned back to sea, and one of the two swam further in, and one of the two sang into the night, and her voice was as the seagull's cry. They say she grasped her lover's hand, (her hair was as the very seaweed), and danced far out to sea (her tears were as the saltwater), and there she welcomed with a kiss, and loved a victor damned by death, and damned herself the same. (You're a mad one, Annie, as mad as they come)
They say she dances still.
:fin: