Stay The Moon



On a constant path descending
With gooseberry seasons ending
For mackerel sauce we searched.

Hooked many years by fish,
Beneath that bush our every wish
We stirred in gooseberry fools;

Rhubarb too, did crumble,
Time through fingers fumble,
Poured in to an oily pool.

When my peers awake,
They will see that dreadful lake
And fear their fruitless doom,

For I too once was as they are,
And though I watch from here afar
Unable now to stay the moon,

With a bulbous cultivar,
Poetry my scimitar,
I’ll cut my lonely gloom.

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