Mermaids

Mermaids I have seen them in the gray, untimely dusks, gleefully playing with lost ships among coral rock, golden hair tossing about like mad witches, as they flit in and out of barnacled portholes. They ride on autumn tides near sun bleached inlets sailing with north winds, humming absentmindedly like star fairies, flinging sea shells about, filling them with wind songs to capture little boy’s hearts. Mariners have come upon them sitting on driftwood, threading pearls with loose strands of hair, singing of treasures beneath the sea in an aquamarine world, charming them with sea horses and starfish, and sand castles, adorned with gold and silver from Spanish galleons. Hoary fishermen, half blind from the merciless sun have spoken of them in whispers. Old men with tormented dreams of nymph melodies played on sea harps, carried by the wind from distant horizons where dolphins play. Oh they are beautiful, with their sculptured breasts and poignant turtle eyes, riding on white pillowed waves under child moons, and the songs they sing have dashed sleek ships on barren reefs, and driven brave men mad. And once you have seem them, you will roam from beach to beach, every autumn in the cerulean dawns searching for them, gathering sea shells to take back to your room, in the hope you may hear their song just once more. Mark Conte, copyright, Poem magazine 2000