I used to visit her

in her cottage by the sea;

my grandmother.

She spun silky stories

of a creature some had seen

and one that swam in streams.
It spoke in storms,

a spirit of the ages

cast away

into sunken seas.
Seal coat

night eyes,

ancient foe in amorous disguise. 
There was always a golden comb

in her hands –

those brown, leathery hands

hands

the colour of mahogany,

and palms

palms as white as the shells on the shore.
Beware, my child,

of that creature on the rocks;

when tides ride low

she combs her locks.

Take heed, my child

of that creature on the rocks,

luring Freetown’s fishermen

from their docks.
And if my child, you must seek land

beware of the one that extends his hand.
I never saw that creature on the rocks

but I could always feel it

dwelling

in the crevices of my memory.