nocturnal things imperfect
It is the middle of a warm summer night
I am running down the stairs,
quickly and excitedly, with my neighbours following me.
We all want to see the full moon.
It just fell down in the front yard.
I saw it coming down like an unwashed potato,
staining the sky with its brown dirt.
There it is,
lying on the ground,
a giant spud, trampling the grass it landed on,
showering its fine dust all over our bodies.
A cloud of bats are circling round it,
squeaking at this strange visitor.
I approach it warily. I touch it.
It is ice-cold and alluring,
sparkling in the full moon light.
I wait for it to reveal to me the mystery of the night
but it remains stubbornly silent
as it has been through the eons.
I remember well the comical expressions of confusion
on the faces of my neighbours,
and the feelings of enigma,
inexplicable wonder overwhelming me.
This image was created by Rob Heald for this poem.
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