Thieves And Menschen Poem by Mark Heathcote

She's precocious; a milky sky,
a moon-white opal's radius
Her velvety hand of winter calls
beckoning to all, who'll pause?

In their stalactite breaths, outdoors
‘O sees her on her footfall-haunches.
Like a woodland lily unearthed.
Within these layered satin sheets.

Men, in their time-honoured way
came to believe they were kings and princes,
thieves and menschen
but they're just not her Kinsmen's children.

They're not holy in sea-bound prayers-
to her, the goddess of the moon.
They're just dumb-fed flower bees.
Drunk on pollen - the sun's doubloons.