Moira sits on the sand and waits. The tide tickles the bottom of her feet, then washes over her body. And she waits. Weary green eyes on the horizon. Wet tresses crusty with salt frame her trembling face, and her lips round as she blows out every shaky breath.
Three hours she’s waited here, in the soft grey sand between the sharp and glassy rocks. Three hours with nary a sign. The garrison said they were coming home. They didn’t say who.
The furious growl of engines sounds over the hill behind her, and her head snaps up to the sky to watch the planes pass above and out over the sea. A friendly pair painted with the blue of her country.
“Tell me what you see,” she whispers.
The planes shrink to pinpricks long after the sounds of their engines fade. And then Moira is alone again.
She folds her arms around her body to keep away the chill. Her mother would have been so furious if she knew Moira was out here, but Moira was angry at all the others sitting in their homes by the fires with their dogs. The garrison said they’d come to this beach first. How could the people in the village keep themselves away?
“Foolish to hope, helpless to cope,” she said quietly through her shivers. “Around, around she spins, with ne’er a breath and always chagrin. My forlorn Marcelyn.”
