The ancients saw their moon disappearing in a bath of blood,
Taken from them in a heavenly sacrifice.
For me, the celestial drama was gentler.
If bloody at all, there was the congealed clot of healing:
The solstice moon scabbed over,
To rise, renewed;
It was a russet moon, retaining
a final fling of autumn, as a flink
of light clung on to the limb
of the lunar rim like a jewelled ring.
Deep frozen, it set through haze
With it's blankened face
Masked in a shadow;
Its night given way to the morrow.
In stillness, chilled to the marrow,
I watched the space where it was
brighten and fill with blue light
as the sun rose behind me.
And though I know how it happened,
I still wonder, quite,
And though I know how it happened,
I still wonder, quite,
(inertiapreneur 
A poem and picture, entwinedcollaborate to cast me backperhaps not by designbut there I goI was two and twenty,as they say in Strasbourg, whereI sheared the cold November nightfirst with coat, then with companyand then at last with much hopped warmth taken outinto the nightNew Friends and I we walked the cobbled streetsbecoming ever warmer as we wentI tell you now I saw the moon as ancients sawit, rust-red, unexplained and stillI stood and watched, pointing but alone and curious perhaps, but not afraidThen home. For Bread. For cheese. And bed, with water standing by.I have not seen it since, but I am older nowmy sense of wonder drained by nine to five.but a poem and a pictureentwinedcollaborate to keep that night alive
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