Dead Poet
On Eve of Solstice
She waits upon the rock
As the deep replies to
The song of the dark.
Waves beat
In trepidation of wyrd.
Pebbles dance,
He stumbles closer.
Senses intoxicated
With moon’s nectar.
And stories of folk,
Upon the currents lost.
A dulcet voice –
Concealing the cry of the banshee,
Sings of sisters:
Asrai, nymphs, and selkie,
Above the gelid lament
Of Celtic air and sea.
A graze of lips seals his fate.
The siren dives down
With his heart tangled in her hair.
- Kristine de Castro
February 5, 2003
