The Pool

The raw sunlight of late afternoon

draws a thin red circle in the water,

the faint green light beckons across the bay. 

And the poem about the Sirens (the form of the poem is called a pantoum, by the way)

Siren Song

The sea is wild tonight,

it rushes, swells, bleeds.

The voices, silver. The call, death.

Drown sailor, they whisper.

Rushing, swelling, bleeding,

broken bones heaped at their feet,

they laugh, drowning sailors.

They spin chaos.

Broken bones at their feet, 

they trap us 

in chaotic, erotic cries,

worshipping death.

They trap us,

lusting, lost,

they worship death 

in windless calm.

Lusting, long past

tenderness,

in windless calms, 

they linger, hunger.

Lithe bodies sway,

lone on the island,

lovers as victims, 

aching.

Lone on the island,

with their spiraling song,

aching, trapped,

they play at killing.

With their spiraling song,

their voices silver, they call unto death.

They play at killing.

The sea tonight, wild.

Comments are welcome!

Hilary