The sea wind is plaiting the grasses,
tangling them into braids of storm-beard.
Poseidon is angry,
and the storm comes.
His wild tides wish to strip the sand
so that his fury is made manifest.
I do not know why he rails,
but I understand his rales,
his grief, his pain,
the profound sorrow that bursts
from the bones of his deep sea-bed.
This outburst shall pass,
and yet come again.
but not unneeded
as his agony returns,
I braid my hair in preparation.