Beyond the marble cliffs
Sits a stone-weaved shore
Where seals often gathered
For noonday naps, drenched  
In the throbbing spirit
of the Sun,

Now the days are done
In much shorter fragments
And the tides hug the beaches
With firmer grips, passerbys
Fail to capture a glimpse
Of the great burning effigy
That rides the sky, rather
They must settle for
It’s lunar reflection: the
Divine orchestrator of our
Island’s waters -  

The unsettled Moon
Is sulking again, I keep
Telling the Morris Men
That it’s unkind to
Only dance for the Sun
But they do not listen;

They smack their sticks
And paint their faces
Shouting songs of
Erased archaic motives,

Whilst I am left
All alone to console
The burly ball
Of gleaming rock, and
The more tears I wipe
The quicker I realise
What an impossible task
It all really is.