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,

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