the naiad of Carr Mires Beck (or the wild garlic maid)—Lauren K. Nixon

the naiad of Carr Mires Beck crouches in her drying stream bed
wearing a crown of wild garlic on the shreds of shopping bags 
strung through her filthy hair, muttering curses on the careless passerbys

she scrabbles among the roots that drink her, seeking something older, something wild
something of the earth that bore her, but all she finds are Carling cans 
and sweet wrappers, cigarette butts and little plastic bags of dog shit

oh, but close her eyes and she’s right back to the sweetness of her youth, 
when the children supped her water in cupped hands
and thought her so quenching they named her Sugar Stream

she remembers the linnets, their bright song and bright breasts
filling the air above the bog myrtle, and the great, stone slabs that marked
the Sweet Willy Well, joining her to her secret depths

out here, the water should be deeper, but the springs now are torrents
and the summers dry; she feels herself desiccate, clogged, 
like the refuse she finds daily discarded on her banks

she scuttles under the bridge when the school lets out, disgorging pupils 
who drop coke cans in her ramsons and hurry home to screens and walls;
they have forgotten the wild things. all of them – all but one

this one pauses on the path, staring into the shadow around the water-girl 
as if she can see every raindrop of her history. the child steps closer; 
the naiad creeps forth, all dark eyes and dark hair and teeth she cannot hide

but the girl is unafraid. she drops a single buttercup into the streambed, 
like the offerings of old, then runs to catch her father, who is calling.
the naiad takes the flower, holds it delicately between grubby fingers;
tonight, they both will dream of linnets, singing beneath an older sky

photo by Simone Dinoia and Pawel Czerwinski (via unsplash)