Siren

In the hush of the moor at midnight’s bloom,
a phantom shouts in silver wind – the siren calls,
an echo wrapped in mist, a tender, torn refrain
that takes the heart, makes the country’s throat grow wide.

Her voice is a gull‑winged plea upon the shingle sharp,
a tide‑kissed lull that swells within ear and chest,
and sailors, old and young, know the trembling lure:
they bend their hulls, their sails, and listen, blessed.

It sings not from the shepherds of the wild forest,
nor from the play‑houses of the Thames’ bright lights,
but from the glassed‑in towers that breach the sky—
the red‑and‑brown lights that drop like watery fire.

The siren’s song is not for heartless ruins;
it summons swift distur­bances to the fields of guardians,
the police and lac­under, the fire brigade,
that rush like rain upon the cobbled streets.

So on the cliffs of the coast or in the city’s hollow,
the old myth doth mingle with the new command—
a creature of olde and a beacon for all,
the siren sings, for all to heed the warning.