Prayer to ManannĂ¡n mac Lir

As I'm sitting on the sand between high tide and low tide,
with the cold passing almost unhindered through my now wet clothes,
part of me is saying, "What are you, nuts?"
But there's the other part,
the one that's reaching out eagerly,
desperately even,
waiting to see and know you,
to join hands together as friends meeting after too long apart.
That's the part that is taking the cold and wet and lighting a fire in my soul with it,
warming my freezing body.
You won't come to me unless I set out for you.
And we will meet in the middle.
That's why I'm sitting here, in the space between the land and the sea.
That's the middle, isn't it?
My prayer goes out on the ebbing tide.
May you come to meet me on the return,
riding on the crest of the waves,
crashing into my heart's shores.