(The Sirens Confess)
During a windless calm
we mount ourselves high
on the island rocks, our wings hang
wide and wistful in air
to catch the ocean’s light.
As hands ripple
through harp strings of kelp,
our voices glide
mapping miles of water
We sing to soothe the sailor,
lull him asleep but dissuade
any fierce ambition
that fastens sword to belt,
breath to epic deed.
Our songs stop
oars from rowing
and let gills of wood
soak in salt –while men lie beached
on our shore sagging
in sallow skin, rags left
to stuff the mouth of crow,
hawk, quail or seagull
driven from planted fields
by men looming tall,
tailored rustic
with straw and cloth
or paint and clay.
Eager to feast, birds flock here
and find meadows of fruit
spoiled by lack and love
of nothing – and most fatal
mermaid larks
who must sing and seduce
to spare their species
from slow extinction.
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