Swimming Hole Mermaid
If words were artifacts of flint or bone
Within the tailings of a gravel mine,
She'd spot them all and claim them as her own,
Then lug them to the place where dreams align
With daytime thinking in a fine excess.
In that still pool, a quarry filled by rain
For months and years, as raindrops coalesce,
She'd float, then sink below the mossy stain,
The algae streaming past her opal eyes.
A rattling sharpness—clashing edgy bits—
Would bear her downward, weighted by her prize:
Her ancient tools, now polished clean of glitz.
A thrush upon the bough might see her there,
Where gills are needed, just to breathe the air.
© 2006 by Mary R. Bull
Revision © 2010 by Mary R. Bull
I finished writing this in October, 2006, but on re-reading it, I decided I could make it better by changing a couple of lines, here and there. I still like the way it encapsulates my memory of picking up surface artifacts left by the Woodland Indians, long ago in Kentucky.
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