“Night is the blotting paper for many sorrows.”
I am in Adelaide for a couple of days for work and it has been a very hectic day with rather a lot going on and also a function on this evening which went on until late. Coming back to the Hotel, the moon was up in the sky and the city was rather quiet and seemed quite forlorn – it is a midweek night after all. While walking back, my mind worked over some words: Woolen shrouds, liquid graves, scrawny branches and the passage of time as the moon described its endless circles across the skies…
So for this poem blame the moon and my late night walk…
The Moon
The moon with face of bronze and full
Ascends so slow from the horizon low;
Peeks through the wispy clouds of greyish wool
It climbs, it rises and assumes a silver glow.
The trees attempt to grasp the satellite
They stretch bare branches to the sky.
The wind that blows will usher in the night
While boughs turn into claws up high.
The moon impassive in the heavens reigns
And looks upon the city’s ghastly sprawl.
It reaches zenith and then beams it rains
To drown in river, wrapped in liquid pall.
Silver is now the swarthy face of clouds
The sparkling stars shine coldly down.
Streets empty, houses are enclosed in shrouds;
Cold earth, dead trees, a silent, ghostly town.
The hours flee, the minutes quickly fly
Bodies and loves, all passions will wear thin.
Only the moon forever turns her eye
As people die and lives anew begin.
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