Mermaid

I have been here forever. Before the Flood and the dinosaurs. Time means nothing to me. I have watched millennia pass, the continents shift and creak, mud and sand become solid rock, distant volcanoes scatter their dust into the atmosphere, darkening the sky. I have seen ammonites and trilobites, the first creatures slithering onto dry land. Now I swim this place of shingle and deep water, this place of sky and long-legged birds, the headland jutting out to sea like the tusk of some huge, ancient sea monster. Long ago I watched the first humans walk the shores here. They fished with lines and baskets, inhabited mud huts. Later they constructed towns and cities and pyramids and temples carved with stone creatures, and ziggurats and standing stones. Then cathedrals, mosques, churches. Finally they built towers to reach the clouds and blasted tunnels through mountains, under the sea. Wars raged. Blood flowed. Tribes were exterminated, animals lost. Sometimes I think the earth grows old and tired but, until the sun burns out, it will go on. Yet everything comes to an end. Planets, stars, galaxies. Even mermaids. There is no sadness in it.

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The home of writer Bronwen Griffiths