18 June 2011


blood red moon, eclipsing all others,
over that stony grey soil, the
hardness of it doubling for your
heart, so few words of yours

I have had, and the last
hoarded and made to last like
a prisoner's rations, crumbling into
dust at closer scrutiny, the

meal so coarse and badly
mixed it does not hold a
shape, nor does it satisfy
that wholesome hunger

which slices away, knife upon bone,
and, all the while, the
honeysuckle blooms again into
a thickwarm fug of scent and
her plate is as clean as the
face of the new moon

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