Hunter’s moon

Hunter’s moon

If I was the moon

I would disappoint.

Whatever they do

I would not swoon.

The worst of them are

Empty-headed puppets

Falling-down drunks

Fighting in dark alleys

Sweating and squirming

Rolling in dirt

Smelling of piss,

And rotting meat.

Old towns

Empty ports

Prisoners without conscience

Beachcombers who fail

To recognise value.

Disorganised jumble

Collected in old sacks

Tipped onto the deck

Sorted into piles

More in hope than expectation.

A few silver pieces

For a bottle of rum

At the old inn on the corner

Where long legs

Dance for silver dollars.

Sad-faced men fold their hands

Playing for pennies

Losing in pounds.

An old maid leans on a broom,

Cleans the chapel,

Cleans the dancefloor

Just the same.

She leaves her smile in a jar

Sleeps in a virginal bed

Dreaming of the one

That got away.

A lost prince

The chaste kiss

Upon her rosy cheek.

She can still feel it

She can still see him

As he left,

The promise of return.

The mass grave

In a muddy field.

Bloated bodies on a hillside

Where balefully, I will shine.

Cold and watchful,

Grim, unsmiling

Missing nothing

Giving less.