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Siren

by  nickb

Posted: Friday, February 01, 2019
Word Count: 399
Summary: Back to the seaside again sorry. Not sure about the ending.




Revised Version 2

I can see in the crags a soft waft of weed and anemone
shifting like drowned hair surging in the wallows.
 
The pool is deep here, the sea rolls in and out
to a lazy metronome, rhythmic, heavy.
 
I crouch, cockle shelled, limpet stuck,
beguiled by the heft of the pool
 
and the rippling reflection of myself
a cinematic dream sequence.
 
My face, deep in the water where the crabs moil,
is backlit by clouds.  Small fish flash in the deep
 
little shooting stars, barely seen, and a seagull
darts through my head keening on a West wind.
 
I am called to its belly, where the stones shine
and secrets hide in dark nooks.  It summons elemental things
 
that use the sea’s resonance to hold my gaze,
to invite me to look deeper, draw me into its fine fathom
 
as a more than willing victim.  It is dangerous
and comforting, the solemn wash,
 
water on rock
 
pulls me closer,
 
closes my eyes   
               
hear its pulse
 
But a shout from the promenade ties me to a mast,
and the wind belches up the stench of chips
stripped by gulls from overflowing bins.












I can see in the crags a soft waft of weed and anemone
shifting like drowned hair, it surges in the wallows.
 
The pool is deep here, the sea rolls in and out
to a lazy metronome, rhythmic, heavy.
 
I crouch, cockle shelled, limpet stuck,
beguiled by the heft of the pool in which
 
my reflection is a dream sequence,
jagged lines dance up the sides of a screen;
 
my face, deep in the water where the crabs moil,
is backlit by clouds.  Small fish flash in the deep
 
little shooting stars, barely seen, and a seagull
darts through my head keening on a West wind.
 
I am called to its belly, where the stones shine
and secrets hide in dark nooks.  It summons elemental things
 
that use the sea’s resonance to hold my gaze,
to invite me to look deeper, draw me into its fine fathom
 
as a more than willing victim.  It is dangerous
and comforting, the solemn wash
 
of water on rock
pulls me closer,
 
closes my eyes
to hear its pulse.
 
But a shout from the promenade ties me to a mast,
and the wind rouses me, as it lances the stench of chips
stripped by gulls from overflowing bins.