The Moon Is At Yardarms Poem by Mark Heathcote

The moon is at yardarms; I can almost touch it.
It's dressed like a bride ready to lose her maidenhead
Yet, she can't lose that-what-already has been lost
A part for the lust that kept everything fruity.

Oh, how humdrum are the waves, white swooping
And then again, over and again, recouping
Oh, how routine their whooping and stooping fall
It's like a lighthouse, a storm's safe port of call.

The moon is at yardarms, and the wind is howling
Don't be afraid, love - I've had plenty of voyages
I've seen all the big breakers quiver and return
Singing breathlessly, powerless as a dolphin in joyfulness.

...Yardarms the moon with waves agile enough
Not to drown a fathomless death, dressed a bride
Hair wind sprayed. Relenting, knowing now-
Isn't the time to rebuff diagonal moonbeams swooping?