MOONWATCH                                                                                             

The moon, so gentle quite unlike the sun,

no harm to eyes intent on fixing on

its holes and craters, its pock-marked face

that sometimes smiles and sometimes frowns

and out the ground rises in the East

just like the sun might well have done

some hours before if cloud allowed.

 

There are moons, of course, and there are moons:

take the silver sickle, razor sharp and elegant,

befitting Earth’s sole satellite, so well-armed

the instant the sun seeks to cast shadow over

more than half its full form. But my vote is for

the perfect circle when the sky is clear and

its rise starts low and so must travel rather

longer through the atmosphere and so earn

the choice of one of the warmer colours we

all approve and do applaud –  a reward, perhaps,

for the breadth and beauty of its beam.

 

And as if winched, inch by inch, to the top of its ascent,

by unseen cranes trundled in to ensure a

clean climb to the heavens then, slowly shrinking,

down again, somewhere out towards the West,

this arcing orb needs no voice to sing us lullabies;

its looks alone shine peace enough to captivate

each one of us – indeed, perhaps, each sentient thing –

that stops to lock a gaze upon its face and so tap

its tonic, as much as may be supped by dawn.

 

And when the night is a field of battle

between warring winds and the sky rings

loud with thunderclaps and lightning cracks,

when storm clouds race across a face all

compassion and serenity, a Buddha for the dark,

descended to the scene to plead engagement in

the cause of calm, an arbiter of clashing claims,

seeming close while broking peace and stroking brows,

perhaps the moon has merely drawn them to its height  

to settle all, hoisted strife from just above our beds

and cleared for sleep our worried heads.