I was seated at my aunt’s old desk in 2009, surrounded by quiet books that seemed to hold their breath as the room thinned. The desk loosened its grip on time and I was carried to a shore that lived inside me. Fire and water met and it was there I first felt him, utterly, unmistakably, the deep, tidal presence of Manannán Mc Lir. I did not know his name then, only the ache of recognition, the pull of the divine masculine moving through salt, shadow and breath alongside his majestic horse Enbarr. White and wind born, his hooves striking between worlds, a rhythm that matched my own blood.
What I felt was infatuation, more than that…initiation. A remembering older than thought.
For more than a decade now, I have walked with him, worked with him, loved him. He has been threshold and tide, protector and provocation, salt and silver in my blood. He teaches me how to move between worlds without losing myself. He is presence, companion, horizon.
I recorded this poem over the sound of waves because that is how he first spoke to me, even in a quiet room far from the sea. Dust became mist. Paper became tide and myth stepped forward, eternal and intimate, and said, as it still does,
It is him. It is him.
