I have re-posted this piece as I like to know what people think of my work, but when I posted it first I didn't click the button to allow comments...silly old me...lol Anyway, your thoughts on this would be most welcome. I usually like to create my own pictures to go with my writing, but I thought I would illustrate this piece with the painting that inspired it. I love pre-raphaelite art. This is 'Miranda, The Tempest' by John William Waterhouse. The siren sat upon the rocks, Wind pulling at her hair. She looked up at the screeching gulls, That circled near her lair. With wistful eyes she scanned the sea, Its waves a frothing brew. She saw a galleon coming in, And sensed its frightened crew. She glimpsed them on the heaving deck, As they scurried to and fro. She knew their souls would soon be hers, Back home they would not go. Wind blew hard and waves grew high, The chill was fierce and raw. But as they neared the jagged rocks, The warning light they saw. Now she knew that she must act, Or lose her treasured prize. So taking in a good deep breath, She let her voice now rise. The noise of wave and wind died down, And allowed the sweet song to wing, To where the tired sailors stood, In the harsh rains bitter sting. At that moment their fear did lessen, And spirits start to grow. Whilst staring at this pretty maid, Their will began to go. They saw a girl so pale and fair, Upon the rocks she stood. She beckoned them to come in close, And join her there for good. With no minds left to call their own, They followed the beautiful sound. And there upon the sharp, cruel rocks, Their ship it ran aground. The timbers of the hull gave way, And water flooded in. Sailors gave forth screams and wails, A strange unearthly din. The waves kept crashing ever in, Against the ship they ground. So soon the ship was driftwood, And all the sailors drowned. Their bodies sank beneath the surf, And drifted to the bed. To join the old and pearly bones, Of others long since dead. But to this day the siren stands, Though her task she does detest. For she must claim ten thousand souls, Before her own may rest.