Kingfisher Moon (November 1999)
I thought of you last night,
peering up at the moon’s soft edge.
Fascinated, I tried to make out the turning point
of the orb hidden in its infinite bright blackness,
the brilliant glow and shadow darker than the night sky
half-lit by stars.
Is it the tragic ebb, or imperceptible surge?
I pause, cannot remember, and bite my lip
walking up the path to the oak, with grass
bristling at November round my feet.
I hear something — no … over … there! —
running away in the night and I realize:
I cannot really see.
But when I look up,
the oak’s last leaf sits high in the crown, silhouetted,
like a Kingfisher twitching in the wind,
gazing into the lagoon.
Out of nowhere, the moon plunges down.
It glances off the black water and swallows me whole.
Suddenly I am light and dark:
a startled face upon its surface;
a ragged shadow across its side.