He came from the sea, a stranger
swift with killing, claiming
throne and my side in bed,
boasting he was the king,
my husband long lost beyond
the separating sea, that he
was at home after years
of war and strange wandering,
and praised me for being
faithful. But it was twenty
years, no companions came
with him, and the gray-bearded
man with odd scars and absent
gaze bears little resemblance
to the youthful king who embarked
to do the bidding of mightier men.
Perhaps the bones of him lie
bleaching at some bleak cove
and this man that commands
is some cunning impostor, kingly
manners a stolen garb. Perhaps
the throne and bed are stolen,
and yet perhaps he is true and years
and the sea have brought a stranger
in the flesh of the man who left.
Often I think that he wanders
there still, on deep currents
drifting the faraway shores,
and that some rising tide
will bring back home
the youth who left,
in spirit or flesh.
26.01.2025
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