Text and illustrations ÂŠ Marian Webb 2009
1 Past noon the blind moon kisses the eye of the sun, blind in the lit mist.
2 In the dark no thread of light sews the moon’s circle to the hem of dusk.
3 Night falls, cloud-palled—quick— where is it—the quickening invisible ray?
4 Bright sickle flying in grey glass bound for Venusâ€” O beautiful sky!
5 You drove your shadow in its gilded rim beyond the horns of Saturn.
6 Into the blue hour you trail like the plumed iris of a peacockâ€™s tail.
7 I could eat the moon, that butter glaze tasty as a good, fat croissant.
8 Half lit, half vacant, weightless you fall through heaven scissored clean in two.
9 Underneath the world the moon is swelling. I dreamed about an island.
10 Indigo brazens the gold. A dazzle of thorns rings the half-limned hare.
11 Planets trail over the silver beet. Moon climbs high gathering more gold.
12 The seas are a bruise, grey ache of shivering flesh dim as the pale cloud.
13 All waters follow the cold weight of the stranger like a bow drawn tight.
14 Rising white, a mask of stains, she lures the rivers coursing within dream.
15 At zenith the gold flares rocketing high above midnightâ€™s slim ether.
16 O you drown the sky you pool, you fountain, you round eye raining your gold!
17 Past midnight the guests begin to leave the wine-stained table, still glowing.
18 Shadows scud over the silver like the flicker of lonely Garbo.
19 The bat-black roofs edge the blue light of her cloud veil. That blue steals my breath.
20 I am ripe, I am late fruit longing to fall deep into sweet Shiva.
21 Ripe as the moonbow hanging on the swollen moon rising from flood tide.
22 Westerly she sails, ghost ship on the blue morning empty as vapour.
23 A sliver of peach you are slim light to dream by. Slim fruit, slim comfort.
24 Your cold horns point deep into time the dark mother of unending stars.
25 Dark trees finger you a silver twig befogged, low as the dim foghorn.
26 Back lit, a gold ring you rise in dawnâ€™s sapphire. Red Mars is a ruby.
27 I sift the ashes looking for a trace of that phantasmal silver.
28 Solar winds rifle memories, reveries, fearsâ€” they flurry like hail.
29 And they come to rest like scissor blades precisely pointing the same way.