The Selkie and the Sailmaker

The Selkie and the Sailmaker

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The sailmaker walked the midnight shore,

Where waves whispered secrets to the sand,

When moonlight spilled a gift before

His guilty, grasping hand—

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A silver pelt, still damp with tide,

Soft as mist and twice as sly.

"With this," he thought, "she'll stay beside—"

But the selkie watched him from the far cliffside.

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She'd shed her skin by choice, you see,

To study this strange, shore-bound man,

Who mended sails so carefully

With hands both rough and sure in their command.

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By day she came—a storm-tossed maid,

With sea-glass eyes and tidepool hair,

And watched him work (while he delayed)

Each stitch pulled tight with foolish care.

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"What binds a sail to wind and beam?"

She'd ask, her voice like foam on stone.

He'd answer slow, caught in her gleam,

"The same that binds a heart alone."

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When guilt at last undid his theft,

He brought the pelt back to the bay,

Trembling like a sail bereft

Of wind and will to stay.

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She struck the flint before he spoke,

The pelt alight like dawn's cruel glare,

"You thought to cage me with this cloak?

My prison's now the one you bear."

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Now sailors tell of haunted tides,

Where sails snap taut with no wind near,

And if you listen when the moon is wide,

You'll hear two voices—one bound, one clear.

From the Salt-Stained Archives of : The Lost Books – "Libri Perditi"

Where even the freest hearts build cages.