Mark Heathcote

(22/03/66 / Manchester)

A love slave's shanty to a goddess...


I'd like to look for—the spry-blossom, called Phoebe
There is nought as virtuous, or saintly, as the white gypsy...

I'd like to find me—that last green forget-me-not
What matter the cost, if I don't hit the jackpot...

I'd like to look for—the pale goddess of the moon;
She to me should be the sun, and I her Neptune!

If she would but, peel me in her 'bergamot-palm
...Sister of Apollo'. I'd shyly-sing my last, psalm...

Lie with me; with the trident in Poseidon, crowned:
Enter within me, all this eternity newly bound...

Love, let no mountain-shade your innate-fancy
Earthquake: Wild horses, shall not tether my fiancée.

Like the smoking-waves upon the sirens-shore
I'll descend to meet her when, the rocks of thunder-roar.

When the foam of perfection is my narcissi
Reflection-transformed; answer then why we're so tawdry.

Answer me why? Like the sea, forever u-turned:
These lover's hearts like flowers be spurned..?

Submitted: Thursday, February 16, 2012
Edited: Sunday, March 23, 2014

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