The Moon Is At The Yardarms Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

The moon is at the yardarms; I can almost touch it.
It's dressed like a bride ready to lose her maidenhead.
Yet, she can't lose what has already been lost.
A part for the lust that kept everything fruity.
Oh, how humdrum are the waves, white swooping.
And then again, over and over, 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 the 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.
At yardarms, the moon with waves agile enough
Not to drown in a fathomless death, dressed as a bride
Hair was wind-sprayed. Relenting, knowing now -
Isn't the time to rebuff the diagonal moonbeams swooping?