But Thursday’s child is never merited
With any plan but that vaguest premise –
No directions can be inherited.
Each day I now stare at that vast blue plain
And count the creamy crests of froth and foam.
I try to see the break ‘tween sea and sky,
Asking if that blurred fracture is my home.
Wet sand around stubbed toes is comforting
And waves wash over wounds of wasted days.
The breeze kisses my face and tired eyes
Sun rays coddle the scars of old affrays.
One day I will venture away again,
When all high tides are low and big swells small.
But just for now I’m born of Wednesday,
Trapped by injustice’s cyclonic squall.
Monday's child is fair of face, Tuesday's child is full of grace, Wednesday's child is full of woe, Thursday's child has far to go, Friday's child is loving and giving, Saturday's child must work for a living ...
(Nursery Rhyme, author unknown)