Moon
I would like to think it was moon-madness
that made you stop looking at me like I was something that glowed.
In the rain-washed morning I stood
like I was your star again; at the end of the lane
and you told me to go, please. Before I do something
stupid.
So I ran
to the trees where the hares and the barn-owls lived
creatures that spoke the soft language of dusk
for I could feel myself receding like the day, gone.
He said he does not love me, said it like it was plain as
a pine tree.
The lunar hare winked its large eye at me
and sent my soul to merciful quiet.
I woke.
On earth
I paced and fretted.
Chased the flickering reflections across the surface of a cup of tea;
saw me, always chasing you, and you, always running.
Sang a song with all the other hapless searchers
both a siren and a dying swan
hoping my voice cut a path back to somewhere familiar
under a hollowed retrograde moon.
I slept in fitful swells of water
woke to chilly neap-tides, wished without fruition for spring.
You have to swim a bit, said the moon-hare. Sorry.
One night I woke and there were
waves
in my heart again
and I took my place in the sky.
Daisy Harris
Daisy Harris Poetry 