He knelt on the wet grass and looked down at the silver-plated tray.In the darkness he saw the moon’s face reflected. There, I’ve caught it, he whispered. The spirits of the field did not correct him but smiled quietly and pressed forefingers to lips. His eyes were wide and then they closed and he fell to his side. The spirits smiled at him and at the tray. The next morning it would be in the house again, ready aligned to catch the first rays of the moon as they passed through the trees.
moon
Moon
Strawberry moon. Wolf moon. Honey moon.
The moon I gazed at, lightly holding your hand,
the dry grass itching through thin cotton.
Dragon moon. Splinter moon. Cherry moon.
The moon you stared at, disentangling your fingers,
the dew beginning to dampen our faces.
Cloud moon. Blood moon. Tearful moon.
The moon we looked beyond, our hands now distant as time and tide
The clouds beginning translucent the sky.
The moon goodbye. The farewell moon.
The moon of a thousand last last looks.
The moon you can see, perhaps you can see now
The moon that is forever ours.
Moon
Ali stretched his hand towards the night sky and pulled down a crescent of milk-white seaglass, polished smooth by decades of waves. ‘Here is all the moon I can reach,’ he said. His lover smiled in silence, her eyes full of starlight. She touched the glass to her lips.
Moon time
Milk-white light spills through the crescent slit in sky
Trees cast broken spider web shadows
I look at my phone as you tell me with you the sun is shining
The earth has spun you away
Yawn
The wolf rolled its head back and yawned, then coughed and choked, eyes white in the moonless night. When the world was silent again, the moon reappeared behind the pine trees, a jagged slice missing from its edge.
Fingertips
fingertips; your lips
slowly waking to moonlight
my lips; fingertips
Friends shyly hold hands
Friends shyly hold hands
like the moon touching the ground
through the trees in Spring
Night, waiting
pale moon, stars, chalk clouds
snow on the distant mountains
night waiting, or night, waiting
Fancy dress
Lace underwear clouds thrown over the lightbulb moon; the streets are camouflaged in fancy dress. Two figures, fingers interlocked.
Every day
Leave it. It’s not worth it. Walk away.
The somersaulting evening starlings signed to the sun.
The fading sun, reluctantly, dipped below the horizon.
You know I’ll be back, it growled.
The moon peeked pale-faced from behind the clouds.
Every day, it said. Every day.
illustration © Ross Gillespie @bigblether
simonsalento 