a report on the moon
Darkness has nibbled the edge of the moon, at first it was a smudge, imaginary, but now her disc is blurred and cut.
There is much beauty here, even without you.
Clouds scour across the sky in a soundless hurry.
The moon focuses a ragged halo, silver out to gold, within the clouds that pass between us.
Moon's disc half occluded. I begin to see, behind the moon's bright mask, the true, pale golden ball that is the moon.
Between these moons there is a searing crescent of blue-white light.
The second, hidden moon has a bright edge, giving it the look of a ring.
The clouds have decreased again. Tiny scourings of cloud.
I earlier proposed some deep magic to my effigy of you. I cannot say how she will respond, but the fact that the moon is actually disappearing gives me cause for hope.
Cloud heavier, but patchy. The moon is definitely now a globe with a lens of brightness at one edge. Its roundness is exquisite, explicitly tactile.
It looks warm and perhaps slightly soft. Then again at every moment it is changing, now a stern geometric figure, now blurred and soft.
A shred of light clings to her edge. Reluctant to let go.
The stars burst out in sympathy, crawling at the edges of my eyes.
The Moon looks like an eyeball, the cornea represented by the last sheath of light.
It seems lit from within.
The Earth bumps twice.
I see a shooting star and wish on you.
Here comes another jet, green light, red light, white flashing lights,
cruising into Gatwick with its dampers down.
Suddenly the Moon is blotted by a cloud.
A dazed myopia of stars. I'm interrupted by a hedgehog banging about in the cat food. It is so Intent that it ignores me entirely until I have nudged it 3 times with my boot.
The Moon is fading from pale gold to russet as the deeper shadow takes hold of her.
I can see 6 Pleiades, I can imagine 7. They resemble an ill-conceived
diagrammatic representation of box-making from a sheet.
1 have seen two more shooting-stars.
The second occlusion of the moon seems almost complete. The sky is
extraordinarily beautiful. The stars of the Milky Way seem very bright and close. It is damp but not cold.
When I turned and saw the Plough I smiled, as if at an old friend.
The Moon rusts to a disc. Mourning her separation from her beloved.
A hush comes on the world.
An owl calls forlornly to the Moon which is now only a smudge.
There are stars everywhere.
The moon is very round and soft.
Now the moon has almost been covered, she is a round being of appreciable size and form. It is a moment of perfect stillness. I suppose this is as near as I get to having a religion.
Clouds slide over her. She is almost totally erased. Then, I look again, she is gone. The South-West has clouded over.
I'm tired now. Throughout her travail the Moon has been accompanied by one, small, dogged star.