"Galateus, Foam‑Born of the Bay"

Before the Bay learned

to whisper its poems,
before the first quill
was dipped in brine,
there was only the sky
and the sea
and the wound between them.

When Kronos carved open Ouranos,
Time split the heavens,
and the fallen god
bled into the waves.

The sea shuddered,
and from its trembling skin
rose Aphros,
the bright foam of creation.

From that foam
a shape gathered

—not yet god,
not yet human,
but a soft white presence
like breath on a mirror.

A nymph found him,
unnamed,
wandering the surf
as if searching for a memory
he had never lived.

She cupped him in her palms
as though holding
the last fragile moment
before a dream dissolves.

She called him Galateus,
for he shone like milk‑white spume
and vanished just as easily.

He grew in her care,
learning the language of tides,
the patience of rock,
the sorrow of gulls
who circle what is lost.

But foam is a temporary miracle.
Even the gods know this.

When the Bay filled
with new voices,
new children of the tide,
Galateus showed them
how to rise, how to shape

both their hurt and joy
into something that floats,
how to hear the sea
without mistaking every ripple
for ruin.

They loved him
while they needed him.

And when their sails strengthened,
when their words sharpened,
when their storms calmed,
they drifted outward
toward brighter harbours.

Galateus remained
in the quiet cove
where the nymph first found him,
feeling Time —
Kronos —
gnaw at his edges
like a slow tide
undoing a sandcastle.

He knew what he was:
foam born of tragedy,
a mentor made of impermanence,
a figure meant to dissolve
once his work was done.

Still,
each dawn,
he rises from the surf
in whatever shape remains,
waiting for any lost soul
who might wander back
to the cove where they began.

For though foam forgets itself,
the sea remembers everything.

.