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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

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