MOONSHINE

 

Thick fog awoke me, I don’t know why,

called me to walk through trees half-seen,

dew-dripping, tripping over storm-snapped boughs,

hidden under autumn’s finished leaves,

no task undone save to rustle, swish and sigh

in time with my own slow-furrowing stride.

 

And in the fog, extended dark,

my feet through leaves might well have been

the shunting of an old steam train: pistons coaxed

to turn giant wheels, a coal-stoked fire to blow

thick smoke behind, a billowing layer

that settles over the gorse and heather.

 

No small surprise, then, soon to find

a pale white light, traced to the moon

which, sinking West, as if aware of my request,

bored a tunnel through the mist

then tracked me as I pushed my pace,

morning milk moonshine, that honey-sweet face.

 

Quite clear her complexion, but grace the word

to describe her devotion to one sightless soul.

I wondered how the relentless, insensible fog

might part just enough to neatly make

a perfect gap to see her fully round

and for her to guide me without a sound.

 

I’ll remember this, a special walk,

one on one with my own full moon.

In the East, meanwhile, the sun slowly rose,

a broad garden broom to sweep gloom away;

it had no time for one man’s quiet journey –

unlike the moon if you catch it early.