Moon came to an old Cheshire mere,
In all her shadowy finery.
This boy cannot stop looking
And looking at pretty Missy Moon.
Thunder growls on this high summer eve
Missy Moon shows off her talents
Her rounded suppleness of form
Shows us all her shades and shadows and crevices
Toing-and-froing the moon swings like a nursery rhyme
Moonlight flows and the boy is now an old man
Sleeping in a hammock made of shade and tears.
In her gypsy skirt Miss Moon bends and rises,
She kisses the man, lost and white, in his heart of hearts,
And so-fully herself
She shadows, shows herself in silent awe
At this silent roaring of the other-side-of-silence
Where this boy wants to hold her close
To dance her to a full-stop on the glassy surface of the lake
But Missy Moon has forgotten the world of romance

And so she cries and she whimpers
For her shadows will fade
This side of the mountain
This side of the grave
As she flirts with the Earth
On inauspicious nights
or empty
Upon translucent nights
When the boy skips and throws himself 
In and out of her slipperyshadow
In the lake we see
The swinging-cat 
Chasing the moon to the water-side:
He sought her in the water
He sought her in the air
He sought Pretty Missy Moon everywhere:
Chase, grasp, desire, touch:
Dying is the moon’s tide,
Too richly or too much?
This image of the fulsome moon
On windy nights and when at-swoon,
Leaves me with this blood-red-moon
Deep inside of me.

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