only two steps down
into our back garden
to look for the moon.
As usual, the sky
was covered in cloud
but on the dark ground
something shone white.
A patch of radiance
as if the moon had fallen,
rounded full — ah, but she
is still making that journey.
Gradually I understood:
a baby white rabbit
lying utterly still, soft
like a feathered dove.
And my black cat
wanting to go back out
after only just coming in,
unaware of wrongdoing.
My son, visiting, wrapped it
in an old towel, in a box.
We’ll show respect, he said,
but the family need not look.
Tomorrow morning
I have a longer journey —
across the road with the box
to talk to the children there.
Journalling my relationship with the moon: 8
(Yes, I’m ahead of myself; more poems than lunar days, so far.)
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