The Tideways

The moon has never done me
any favours. I used to look and yearn
for magic and the tug of tides,
but the moonlight that came down to me
was cold, indifferent,
and it never touched my blood.
I looked around with envy wondering
if my share of magic had fell to someone else.

I grew up on stories
of a beast that came and went. Huge
and heavy pawprints in the sand.
I stalked along the foreshore like
a short, red monk, searching for the spell,
the magic ring, what offered me
the key to another realm,
but all I found were mermaids’ purses and wet trainers.

I never curse the moon,
though some as do. It does its job
and holds the tideways in its hands.
If it has magic it has
long since passed me by;
wet feet are a small price to pay
for hoping. And my heavy pawprints in the sand
are always boot shaped.