My friend Lesley is kind of a witch.
We walk down the beach at Willoughby.
She collects shells with loops in them,
says hag stones keep evil away since
only good can pass through a hole.
I don’t know who stole the world.
I expect no answers from clams
and oysters. As waves cool our feet,
the moon claims dark magic fails
in moving water. Demons don’t surf.
I like to explore shorelines and beliefs
deemed wild by fake faith and paid
pastors. Maybe tarot cards. Maybe
my dreams. Maybe grandmasters
of the galaxies unknown to sages
and scholars. The web says moon snails
make so-called perfect shell holes
digging through with their tongues.
The wind sings the same song.
A dragonfly lands on my hat and licks
his beard. Everything is weird
and alien and feared. Washed-up
seaweed reminds Lesley she needs
some rosemary (aka Herb of Remembrance,
Elf Leaf, Guardrobe and Mary’s Cloak)
for spell jars. I want to poke holes
in folklore, but a tiny fish in an inch
of tide breaks my hex of arrogance.
