she’s married to the farmer here
the wet edge of her apron betrays
how she loves to swim in the river
every day around noon
a naiad with no clothes on
a glimmering body of water
a whiteness swimming up
out of the deep pool on the bend
blonde tresses braid the current
her slit ears half-way in water
her soap-suds are the foam
on the reaches below Dod Mill
keep looking into the pool
and you will see her
but if she sees you first
she can take you with her