I sail away from you. Your figure, tiny now, blurs in tears. Moon Goddess catches in my sails, leaving a brief gift of translucent pearls.
We sail, my craft and I, over sunrise-warmed blue, tempestuous seething grey; in and out of countless settings of the sun and risings of stars and planetary bodies.
Without true choice, I had to go. It hurt more than I can say – a knife, without balm’s benefit, to the soul; a savage wound which bleeds still, dripping salty red spheres on to the weathered wood of the boat.
But the next phase of my training as Priestess meant this gash, this gout and grief, was inevitable. In order to sail towards, I also had to sail away from: Leaving you standing upon that familiar shoreline – not knowing whether I would ever see you again in this life – was almost beyond bearing.
Watching you shrink, seeing you become Lilliputian (in size, though never in regard), as freshening wind beat hollow requiems upon the canvas, forced the jagged rocks of unknown territory and accepted risk into painful prominence.
I loved you, friend of my soul, lover in all but act. I welcomed the plaiting of vibrations that connected us; relished the remote-control tuning-in that made physical proximity irrelevant. I bathed in the delicate dipping mechanism of your regard, your gentle strokes to the soul, your knowing who and what I was.
But I had to go. Destinies, like oceans, are vast and powerful – and can be blades of separation, even finite endings.
That, my more-than-friend, was the true leap of faith the silver-haired priestess had to make as she, as I, set sail in the loneliness of a sun-cured animal-skin coracle upon the unimaginable seascape of the Mother’s womb – which will, all being well, labour and then birth me, safe and sound, upon dry land within the nine months of a human gestation; this was the ultimate, if unimportant in the wider sense, sacrifice necessary to appease the gods of unavoidable moving on.
And so it is, now, with hands sun-chafed and brine-flayed; with clothing faded and worn to rags; with hair uncombed and claggy to the touch; with salt-reddened eyes and heart over-flowing with love’s most dreadful gift, grief; so it is that I, though tempted to turn oar and retreat, sail on, ever on, towards the remote black-etching (currently seen only in dream) that heralds my new life.
Sail away, Amgel; sail away…