The Oracle gave me a story today. Not sure what it means, perhaps nothing at all. After days of migraines, worries and storms, perhaps it’s just a story.
Painting by Ruth Davidson Abrams, found in my gallery. The title is Woman with Shells, La Mer and La Mère. Couldn’t be more appropriate.
She wore a red dress
She wore a red dress,
hoping the men would look
as she waited on the quay
in the pale morning mist.
Three masts rose indistinct,
pennants hanging limp and grey,
but she heard the slap of the water
and believed it was there.
She would swim, if she had to,
as far as the rocks, and wait
for the storm to crack open the sky,
and for the mother herd to come.
Her shadow would fall, black as sorrow,
on the waves, her tears scatter
like sea foam, the tinkle of tossed diamonds,
and they would hear.
In her dream, she boards the ship,
swims to the rocks, and the sea is full
of the crying of gulls, waves,
and those who live beneath.
A thousand voices sing in greeting
in welcome, and she leaps, a salmon-leap,
into the water of living silver. The sun rises,
the mists dissolve, and she is home.