we, mundane thinkers, mundane dwellers,
immobile on our material world,
our matrix, our Mother,
may sometimes look up at Earth’s silvery sister
sailing slowly, slipping silently
through inky black velvet
sprinkled with stellar dust
and, moonstruck, moondrunk, wonder at a world where nothing lives, nothing breathes, yet still imagine walking, wading through moondust, climbing mountains
I can’t bathe in your seas,
No cow jumps over you;
No Man here takes his ease,
You’re still old when called ‘new’.
But I’ll still bow to you
When they say you are new,
Silver coins I’ll thrice turn
In my pockets, to learn
If more money I’ll earn
And more riches discern.
Then thanks for good fortune
I shall give to the Moon!
Written for a Twitter readalong of Philippa Pearce’s Tom’s Midnight Garden
O moon, it’s time
I wrote a rhyme
to you, Selene,
pale-faced genie.
But rhymes for Moon,
like June and spoon,
make me go slack-kneed,
they’re so hackneyed,
so I’ll just praise you
for each phase you
go through, Tide-queen,
Earth’s mate. Thus my paean.
Written for a Twitter readalong of Philippa Pearce’s Tom’s Midnight Garden
Light at night
Show, don’t tell: the glint
of light on broken glass was
Chekhov’s shining moon
searing my soft soul
shining from night’s sky, searching
sightless it sees all
smudges in the sky
shade from sombre to shining
Selene greets Sol
Zenrinji 