A Celtic Soak

Bathtime is for make-believe.
My knees become the Cliffs of Moher
jutting above a kyanite sea.

I shave seaweed from my skin,
its tangled tendrils hold
secrets not meant for men.

Around the rim, the hag’s head nods,
she does agree,
man’s a creature of pure trickery.

A mermaid without a cloak
lounges on my landslip thighs,
dips her tail in the aquatic yoke.

We’ve learned to bide our time,
wedding and bedding, but ne’er forgetting
One day we’ll find

our stolen magic stoles.
Slip into them, and then the wider sea
to swim free amongst the selkies.