Bran

Speak of the sea; the grey rolling foam, the washing, washing water that comes as she does. Speak of the sea and all her silences, great as she is, quiet as she may be, of all her memory, of all the places she may rest. She is the greatness and the void. Stories that hold memory, that tell something in their telling, something more subtle between the lines. Between one meaning and the next a hidden history unfolds. Pages between the ones we see.

Dark hair, like night falling between my fingers, like night falling as a silken cloth over the land. Bright eyes upward turned to heaven. He could touch it with his hand, he could hold it in his palm.