Times A Skipping Stone On Choppy Waters Poem by Mark Heathcote

Times a skipping stone on choppy waters
Each century is one skip from descending
Into damp darker, quieter quarters
With not one further chance of suspending
The dance, the ripple of light that flashes
Reckless as a house martin beneath eaves
Big as upturn waves with biting gnashes
Each interval a-suckled-breast that cleaves
To hold on to its infant fate cries out
Foams at the mouth, plummet an endless sleep,
Bedding down on a pillow that without
A Father's just hand would be a slagheap
Without whose kiss, white gambolling horses
Would, have meant little in their due courses.