The subtle cuts high sail
Nips to the heel of a trepid surge
A courtesy bends in its open fern
Recoiling its claim into remembrance
Heaping pose on the dead dark glut
Neath its oaring heave

In base the bluff kerbs no intent to a swift swallow
Perching its down on the widows yern
Its close fervent smish haps placid
Again the blighty moor
Stone as cold in its nest of negation

Pressing her pulse to symphatic  nuture
Her tempered tender tongues its way
Taming its shrew to the cain of Eel and arrow
Its slip , sharp across the eery veil of guilting
Pierces deep to the dull *****
Birthing its pangs upon the sickly clad
Thickened to stew in slithe and slither


Ruse
Hollows pale
Filling every mercy to its brim
Belting its breath to a brazin bow of command
Its fleet stale as marrow
Plunder its slackened writ
Steadfast on beam
Her Blood Red Compass