The Siren and the Dandelion

Drip, drip in the divots,
Rivulets in the stone,
A carving in Mother Earth
Where the black light shone,
Reveals a branching terrace
And an arch of bone;
The marked aquatic welcome to
An umber under-throne.
In a pool of darkened water
Lurks a darker tapestry
Of iridescent scales and
Bloodied needle teeth,
Shredded sailor corpses
Portend a selkie’s fury;
Where sacrilege meets silt
Lies her cemetery.
On the shoreline by the water
Waits a silent army
Of far-reaching pappus
To which all will cede,
For the ever-underrated
Yellow posies
Will suffocate the wicked;
Death by the demonweed.
The dandelion, thought delicate
Like a broken quill,
Spreads her silent power
As though at will,
And the siren, thought insensate,
Like an ancient squall,
Can be a soft, poison flower
Luring fleeting thralls.
But their tempers are abated
By nature’s amnesty,
Kept away from the bedeviled,
Fate’s gentle mercy,
Thus where the water meets the soil,
And the roots meet the sea, and
Where the seed-head meets the scale—
There—waits a quiet cavalry.
© 2022 Damon Barret Roe. All Rights Reserved.