The air is cold and crisp

when the Syren calls to him.

Her voice is cool,

it flows along the deck

and summons his feet to move,

his heart to thump.

Water crashes around the ship,

yet lays calm and black

around her waist.

He leans closer.

What a strange thing to see in the night:

Gilded locks caressing the velvet sea,

a half formed smile,

fully exposed breasts.

The thrum and crash of salt licked waves

are silent.

The boat creaks but he does not hear.

All is held,

held within her gaze.

She whispers to him and he leans close,

“Come to me fisherman

For you know I am lonely,

Come to the water,

Come to me.”

Salty scales

weigh a man’s heart.

They hold him still

‘til the cloth of his pants

are wet,

her body wrapped securely around him.

And then under,

Under,

Under…