| THE LORELEI SIGNAL |
.
| Written by MargeSimon / Artwork by Marge Simon |
| The Silkie's Daughter |
Scrub the air, wipe it clean.
Refresh me with your
chamomile and soap.
I lost my ship to privateers,
but today I’ll spare my mood.
I would rather cherish you
than bruise your fragile face.
Put aside my ale,
brew me a strong tea.
We’ll pack a wicker basket,
sandwich our lunch with
conversation. I'll entertain
you with my ventures on the sea.
But what is this? Do I see a tear?
It is a very long beach,
shells glistening in the sand.
What hides behind that frown,
those downcast eyes?
While you were off
to distant ports,
my father took me home.
He told me how I came to be,
about the mother I never knew,
a woman on the land,
a silkie on the sea.
I’m almost of age,
for those with human sires
take longer to mature.
My gills will open soon,
and I may join her in the harvest
of that vast deep below
the purple waters.
Until that time, I beg you
do not touch me, leave it be.
I change my ways,
forego the lads’ camaraderie,
but all’s for naught.
One star-washed summer night,
in the wind across the waves,
I hear your mother's cry,
bidding you return.
Her hold on you far stronger
than my own, I watch you
disappear into the foam.
Refresh me with your
chamomile and soap.
I lost my ship to privateers,
but today I’ll spare my mood.
I would rather cherish you
than bruise your fragile face.
Put aside my ale,
brew me a strong tea.
We’ll pack a wicker basket,
sandwich our lunch with
conversation. I'll entertain
you with my ventures on the sea.
But what is this? Do I see a tear?
It is a very long beach,
shells glistening in the sand.
What hides behind that frown,
those downcast eyes?
While you were off
to distant ports,
my father took me home.
He told me how I came to be,
about the mother I never knew,
a woman on the land,
a silkie on the sea.
I’m almost of age,
for those with human sires
take longer to mature.
My gills will open soon,
and I may join her in the harvest
of that vast deep below
the purple waters.
Until that time, I beg you
do not touch me, leave it be.
I change my ways,
forego the lads’ camaraderie,
but all’s for naught.
One star-washed summer night,
in the wind across the waves,
I hear your mother's cry,
bidding you return.
Her hold on you far stronger
than my own, I watch you
disappear into the foam.
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Anna Sykora has been an attorney in New York and teacher of English in Germany, where she resides
with her patient husband and three enormous Forest Cats. To date she has placed 59 tales in the small
press or on the web, most recently with *A Fly in Amber,* *Death Head Grin,* *Everyday Fiction,*
*The Vagabond Heart,* *Ethereal Tales,* the *Cynic,* *Strange, Weird and Wonderful* (where she
is Featured Writer for Winter 2010), *Rosebud* (excerpt of her first novel), the *Barbaric Yawp,*
and *The Iconoclast.* She has also placed 117 poems, and was *Green Rock's* Featured Lyric Poet
for June.
with her patient husband and three enormous Forest Cats. To date she has placed 59 tales in the small
press or on the web, most recently with *A Fly in Amber,* *Death Head Grin,* *Everyday Fiction,*
*The Vagabond Heart,* *Ethereal Tales,* the *Cynic,* *Strange, Weird and Wonderful* (where she
is Featured Writer for Winter 2010), *Rosebud* (excerpt of her first novel), the *Barbaric Yawp,*
and *The Iconoclast.* She has also placed 117 poems, and was *Green Rock's* Featured Lyric Poet
for June.
