Shovels Blunted Bent On The Sun Poem by Mark Heathcote

As we dung and clung on to the moonlight
Till our shovels blunted bent on the sun
And a thousand waves came rushing in
As we tiptoe into each other's arms
Passing each other like multi-coloured rainbows
With ends that never meet
It is then we sang-like linnets chirped like crickets
And finally by the hearth said goodnight
And kissed each other's cheeks uttering,
Uttering I love you my golden honey.