Perhaps he has surprised the red headed woman
wandering the beach, or she him
resting among the rocks, the stranger
emerging from shed skins, his hair black,
face less flat without its halo
of hide, his dark eyes
gentle or not. What happens next

anyone's guess: attempted flight
or conversation. And their grappling,
gentle or not, she remembers the ocean
smells of him, his squat legs stepping
back into fur, wizened leather
for his feet, the hood
drawn up over his head
as he walked off into the animal
dark core of her story.

So the story's told,
not of some Inuit drifter, but seals
nudging a brother's boat from rocks,
his nets laden, the child
born out of wedlock, his liquid dark gaze.

[The Silkie, by William Greenway]

[Seal Dá Saol, by Celia de Fréine]