Tuesday, December 28, 2004

Argent Moon

The moon is skittering among branches
dodging behind low hills
as we roll out the magic ribbon,
burrow through tatters
of ancient forests.

Although the land is squared with fields
and ripped by roads
still a few trees gather on high places
to offer naked arms in silent prayer
towards the sky

ruled by a hanging moon
staring with that idiot face

a howling fishbowl moon
its silver occupant
swinging its claw-tail
frozen forever.

You need a telescope
to see the ruthless tyrant
of Iraq. He hides there too.

the moon is tracking among branches,
skulking behind grey hills
a secret agent
always on our case.

(c )Richard Lawson

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