The sea was writhing at Seahouses. Northumbria wild, voices calling on the wind blown from Hyperborean reaches.
And then you — your skin grey like a seal, matching your eyes, a lantern jaw jutting out like a promontory, unyielding.
So then why are you so kind? Because you are blind, like nature, the tempestuous oceans thrusting, reaching, for just one fleeting sight of your son.
Who brought me this far?
Providence cannot explain
Copyright Francis 2020