The Last Returning Tides Of Love Poem by Mark Heathcote

Let's sigh at the quietude of the moon
and know a lover resides at her loom.

Ah, breasts rising high and then falling low,
pale her dark hair dreams of her Romeo.

Her heart twists in its harsh, tight binding cords
like a lost cormorant swimming seawards.

With a noose, a twine tied around her neck
she swallows entire-oceans bottleneck.

To drink of last returning ebbs of love
tell of an island the soul can but dove.

Let's sigh at the quietude of the moon
and know a lover lies sleeping entomb.

Dreaming, miracles that awake the dead
with kisses that wake the soul newlywed.