In Foreign Hands Poem by Mark Heathcote

In foreign hands, I could not be honeycomb,
not when you is my harbour and my bee glade home.

In alien arms, death might as well be mine
because you are my breath, my sweet Columbine.

No other garden has such vistas I want to see,
And no matter the season, I guarantee-

Your love will have a never-ending chorus
nevermore porous or beauteous or gorgeous.

Then the singing here and now all can perceive
Oh, lord, let her not be false or me naïve.

Love - love like this is only mortal bliss
but I'd give up paradise for just one more kiss.

I'd shear all the clouds from these heavens again
to peer and shiver than live forever malcontent.

I'd live in danger like the woodland red roe deer
in the firing line, then live and see you disappear.


~

Oh, I'll weed out some purple mountain heathers
And marry her in a church someplace in Cheshire.