How High is the Moon
Best friend, Nickii came to stay.
Took me outside
for the first time in weeks.
Dusk was fast falling. The sound of sheep
bleating, music to my ears as we rest a minute
by the porch.
Half in envy, half in pity, I watch a moth
court the lamp, fly inside and disappear
without a trace.
Then something catches my eye.
Above the farmer’s field, the harvest moon
shrugs off a cloud
which brings to mind, ‘The Moon’s a Balloon’
or so said David Niven. And I would tend
“Nice to see you smile,” says Nickii,
as I reach out – catch hold of its string
as it floats on by.
Magic, that’s what it is. Wind in my hair
fresh air on my face. I’d forgotten
what it felt like.
We pause on the porch
before she takes me back inside.
Just one last look.
Like schoolgirls we giggle, mad she calls me.
Both on a high, but then again,
how high is high?
Broadly speaking, as the crow flies,
it’s as much space as I can put between me
and these shackles of mine.
Half in envy, half in joy I see the moth
fly free, disappear into the night …
Maybe ask it.
Maybe it might know.
As I watch it kiss the moon.