Tag: moon

poetry

eclipse on a night with no moon

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eclipse on a night with no moon

we scaled the peak to watch her rise
but found a bank of clouds
draped over the eastern foothills

chilled and sleepy
we descended home
sure we would see her on the way
but the sky stayed a blank pink
then blue then grey
marked by a star a moth a bat

we lit our sparklers instead
scrawled our hopes across
night’s blank page
signed ephemeral pledges in smoke
still she didn’t wink at us

after the boys surrendered to sleep
I set a timer to check on her
but the clouds had swung round to the south
and the only evidence that she was up
was the thin silver tracery
around each small cloud

maybe some nights
she doesn’t want to be seen
just wants to hide in her own corner of sky
and be nothing to nobody
just reflect on her time warmed by Sol’s rays
dream her own quiet icicle-mint dreams
not worry about those worrying about her
just slip away in the dark
no matter who might be wistfully watching

poetry

peak

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peak

the clock ticks
and the moon hasn’t yet appeared
we still don’t know
when the worst will arrive

who haven’t I told I love yet?
you. I haven’t told you.
or at least, not enough.

there’s nothing left to do
but sleep eat wait walk
hug our very own children
pray to our gods
forgive who we can

poetry

Moonbow, Victoria Falls

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Moonbow, Victoria Falls

your eyes make the best cameras
 the guide says
somewhat apologetically

he knows how it will go –
a swarm of eager people
staring at the black faces of their phones
blinding each other with impotent blasts of flash
fiddling with ineffective light setting sliders
while chiding the machines in their palms
how can you not see that?
 aimlessly pointing at one torrent then the next –
maybe this one is white enough
or maybe an unseeing video would
do at least the sound justice
(played back later,
it is the epitome of white noise)

oh, my awestruck misguided friends
(including me, with my eleven photos
of a seeming void)
if ever there were a time for poetry
the moment’s at hand

dark shaggy forest
moon cooling from ember-orange to frozen white
whisper that turns to deluge
mist alternately brushing your forehead with feather kisses
or spraying your crown with spittle
the pale white arc
so much smoother than all the noisy jets
curving like Diana’s bow
leading your eye straight into
the frothing maw
then dancing ahead next time you watch your step

and that’s just overlook No. 1
of 7 we’ll be traipsing through tonight
breathing in frangipani
turning a misty colonial memory
into treasure the Copperbelt can’t melt