A waif of the darkness drifted
down the twist of path ahead and hardly
was there time to believe it,
when it re-appeared
in a fluster of wings, tumbling
from between the trees and out
into the sunshine of open field ‒
nacreous, tinted with gold ‒
as if haunting the day
to hunt for the dusk it had lost.
No one counted the seals on the shore
nor actually witnessed how they drew themselves
from the water and stepped out of their grey
and mottled furs to dance in the moonlight
on the sand in bare feet.
They heard their singing though.
No one watched them join hands and dance round
the pile of their skins, nor noticed
how their eyes grew larger and darker
in the moonlight. No one saw them
slip back in to their skins and merge into the waves,
leaving behind the one who got caught
by the hand. No one saw it happen,
but all stories have to start somewhere.