They crossed the partition –

        first the mermaid at Nunton

                who slithered from netted green;

nightmare silence where catfish skidded,

        whiskered,

                 over her chest,

                          her shucked eyes.

The cold of the sea is ferocious –

        mottles skin and makes fingers thick red –

                and she wanted to feel the warmth of stones,

        but a boy cast a stone,

caved her skull.

Then the incident in Sheringham:

        it was drawn to the church’s spire.

                The beadle yapped: ‘Mermaids

        can’t come in here!’

Slammed the oak door in her face.

But Zennor was different.

        Beneath dark grey sky,

                smeared with lemon radiance,

        as sanderlings dared the edges of brown waves,

        a mermaid followed a man’s voice,

         followed words he sang out:

                         Salvation,        Risen,

                                                             Love;

               pulled herself out and across and into the town,

           fathom by fathom,

     eelgrass and blood under nails –

     biting brine-stung lips with concentration.