Inspired by La Chanson De La Folle Au Bord De La Mer, Alkan.

She continued to sit unmoved as the cold water from the sea slowly made its way past her feet and bottom, back and forth in the late November night on the coast of Northern France.  The salty water was bitter against her naked ankles and pantied butt and it bit the fresh cuts on her feet, cut from walking through the thorns on the way to the long bare shore. Each time the waves overtook her and receded she lowered slightly in the sand. She looked out over her white breath into the deep blue of the ocean just as she had every night since her husband sailed away for fortune in another land that wasn’t so bitter and contentious. Each night, whether raining or sunning, snowing or sleeting, she sat on the shore of their former home waiting for his sure return. And as she sat she hummed the same eerie song to herself and to the whites of the waves and the cold moon as she turned the wet sand over and back with the blue blade of the knife she planned to use on his black heart next time she saw him walking up that white shore. She prayed each night for his quick return.

2/2008