Howl.

Howl even though the moon is only quarter.

Even though the only sound you hear

is a melody of birds;

the ratata of a distant woodpecker.

Even though the coffee

carried in plumes that play in light

cast long across the kitchen work surfaces

is all that you can smell.

Howl when the moon is only half.

When the sound of a car approaching over tarmac

is the thrill of ‘who could it be?’,

and the sun beating against your skin

is accompanied by SPF, a good book and a G&T.

Howl when the moon is nearly full.

When you can hear the bombs but you can’t see

the destruction.

Howl.