Journalling My Relationship with the Moon
The last 6 will all be part of 1 - it's the last week's worth
Moon 25 - 30
To be dependent on another's light
no radiance your own, though bright
leaves us dependent on a far-off star
to merely see what shape you are.
And when the sun and you are not in sync
we've got whole calendars to tell us what
and why we bother is an old old story
of radiant light, reflected glory.
That night, our houses without power,
we lit a fire outside, cooked bush meat,
possibly duiker, an appropriate sacrifice.
It was September 1978, the end
of my last term break, and I was unsure
which decision to make - to go or stay.
Why do I think my companion was
a woman, not the man? Two moonlit nights
- one misunderstanding, one song sung.
You turned the colour of glowing coals.
The fire sparked the Dry Season dark
into flames - I chose escape.
That other night, that ended disillusioned,
you were full-on brazen and yet
I could still discern five stars we say
are 'falling'. In actuality, weren't they
travelling? Drawn forward by a force
we pretend to understand, pushed by
what back-story? I myself that night
needed a metaphor for moving faster
than the speed of light, which glinted
from those bayonets ready to strike.
You watched, but those racing stars
demonstrated anything is possible
if only you create a language for it.
You could read, I used to say,
by the light of the moon, walking
those puffball paths towards duty.
I had nothing to read, such a pity.
I'd exhausted the librarians and
planes rarely brought newspapers.
So I read the night, read it like
a friend you can never put down.
And you, dear moon, were my friend.
We no longer have a sky.
We have cloud like a grey
ill-fitting lid on a pot with
white rims. We condense.
It's as if nothing else
has the right to exist.
Hang in there.
This too shall pass.
I will never forget you.
This month I've become
a fan, anxious to please
and be pleased, by any
light you can shed on
The Grand Plan.