Old Friends

We lose them, don’t we, one by one, to time or aspiration?
What seams we sew, must rip to grow: unseemly alteration.
By stealth, their tide begins to ebb, and tangled in the mortal web
they may forget or shift away from our attention – not to say
we love them less – but like the moon, a distant crescent
glanced at briefly, still in our rounded knowledge there completely.

Look in my face now I have lost some valued constant from a distant past
and find the line which holds me like a kite, and fix me to my missing moon tonight.

Dish of the Day (with thanks to Mr Fluffy)

An inauspicious start to this impermanent sunny morning:
concocted reality spooned from thin cardboard,
depressed tv chewing and spitting its non-events,
clagging milk onto sour grapes.

Enough!

No more faffing, jiggering, pottering.
Filled with organic vigour and creative biscuits,
for lunch I will emerge a new dish
available for one day only:
a glorious tasty sandwich
of my scorpion and the moon.

Moon Man

There is a man sits in our crescent moon tonight

with jocular face and monocle.

Hunter-warriors beware,

he will rock away this precious slice of light

should you prey on easy meat from a high-handed horse.

.

There is a man sits in our crescent moon tonight

tickling xylophones with whiskery fingers.

As ice drops flicker

give time over haste to winter tunes,

to taste his gruffle-sung stories of stars and wonderment.

.

There is a man sits in our crescent moon tonight

making immortal space for us.

He cradles kindness

in extraordinarily long arms,

and gifts weary travellers with chuckling beneficence.