The Siren

Once again she is barefoot
On the sand.
She hears them roar; sees them thrash
Like men who believe their own truths
And ride on white horses.

They crash in cannon; swathes of strength
That swept her to a greying shore.
Her body is the driftwood,
Kissed and crushed and thrown
To give completely.

Here, a sea which could destroy them all;
Could trash their strength and twist their bones
And drown a thousand like him
Who had taken their hot fill
And plundered on.

She throws herself on moments past
And feels hard breath return;
Recalling a surging and falling and heaving together,
Then, for a few moments,
A stillness that made her ache.

Silent and weightless on turning crests;
She an angel on foaming wings
Which give four second flight.
She is reabsorbed by the roiling mass;
Mistress of the rolling barrage she invites.

Perhaps their cries could change;
Roars not of quickening blood
But whimpers in cold light,
After the glass has formed
And stilled once more.

But still she would drag him out,
And warm his cooling heart
Against her own;
Would wrap herself around a shaking form
And drown again.


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