In sea-washed caverns crystal bright
lit with phosphorescent light,
in wave webs woven salt-bleached white,
tide-turn rocked in dream delight,
there sea-born mermaids sleep.
While up above the sailors go,
tempest-blown in wild moon glow
they steer the water whirl below
to the dark isle of Caer Keep.
On each side black cliffs crash by,
spray-blown guardians towering high
as sails the ship through wild waves nigh,
rolling, rearing to the sky
where sea-born mermaids sleep;
and dark the island watches there,
sea fog clouds the cold night air
while currents swirl the golden hair
of mermaids waking, now aware
of the storm around Caer Keep.
One sea-song siren coral-crowned
recalls her dream of mortals drowned;
she hears above a shifting sound
as the good ship runs aground,
spike-ripped upon Caer Keep.
‘Come my sisters wild winds blow,
to the moon path we must go.’
She calls to them in crystal glow
as the sailors sob in ebbing flow,
rock-wracked where mermaids sleep.
The salt spray pounds on sand-blown shore,
the ship breaks up as wild waves roar,
cracks in the decks, the mast’s no more,
the sailors pray, storm worn, sea-sore
beneath the cliffs of Caer Keep.
Then on the wind siren song they hear,
alluring, disturbing, they listen in fear,
and out of the sea the mermaids draw near
lyre playing, hair flowing, daughters of Llyr
born from the tide-torn deep.
Singing their songs of enchantment they rise,
weaving sea magic, moon-shine in their eyes,
spellbinding, entwining, sultry and wise
beckoning to where the sea bed lies
beneath the Isle of Caer Keep.
‘Come men-mortals, taste of our charm;
away with us come, down to the calm,
to our crystal-clad caves where you’ll come to no harm’;
and the sailors cry out in fear and alarm
to the mermaids of the deep.
‘What of our wives?’ they sadly reply,
‘What of our children?’ they sob and they sigh.
But the spell is upon them, they’re bound now to die,
seduced to the deep with the mermaids to lie,
beneath the Isle of Caer Keep.
And should you pass along this way
where the sea-born, sultry sirens play,
maybe you’ll hear on a certain day
voices on the wind, they say,
of the lost souls of Caer Keep.
Curly Moon 