by Neil O’Hara

His reflection caught in the glass
as she put the plates away;
she took him for a ghost,
could not believe
the sea had given him back.

Even in the folds of his cloak,
in the patina of accrued years,
like paper prayers in temple walls,
hid the doubt
and in that hope, threadbare.

She knew the sea gave little back
so she held him like Proteus,
fondled and caressed
him back to life,
and he was again her Odysseus.