Moon, all these years
we’ve circled each other:
me, for the most part, indifferently
-‐ obiter dicta, the back of my neck
-‐ you, elliptically; that sidestep dark face,
the pale face you keep for daylight,
the sometimes red flush we all live under,
the way you’ll cling to sky
with barely a fingernail.
You hosted us in the classroom
TV honoured guest,
the astronauts strange as starfish
then bouncing around the screen
like little children on a trampoline,
the power glow of pedagogic light
reflected off our shiny foreheads
and back to that visible horizon,
showers of brilliant black and lunar
white. Not bone, far from it,
yet the rocks in your head
have so many names, Moon,
each of your proliferating phases
labelled, no doubt, with exemplary
diagnoses written up, and down,
in some swollen Book of Manuals.
Moon, you are the big pill
day swallows to face the sun.
Though guess what?
I’m no closer to a cure.
Now, this morning’s bag of fog
spills loose across the treetops,
more chill up there than underneath,
and I’m wondering how you’ll fit;
but you do, as ever,
zeppelin descending, drone cold, obese,
easing gently into that bath of dry ice.
This could be a good time, Moon,
to roll up, show the world a clown face.
1 May 2017