provocation – it begins with the moon

^{provocation – it begins with the moon – 14/01/2023}

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a white moon
made from cream milk
is hanging –
lazy –
in the noon sky

it always starts –
somehow –
with the moon

the unblemished blue
is trying hard
to conceal her

a sense
of shame
at
nothing to do . . .

nowhere
to be

~

why
did I write that . . .

was it a poem
I wanted to express . . .

or
an exploration –
an explanation –
of the behaviour
of a moon
during its own –
private and personal –
downtime

and where
is that moon . . .

above the sky

beyond
the blue

basking
in her own light

reflecting the sun
who remains
invisible –

out of scene –

until later

~

later

I hear the voice
of a star
approaching

from the west
as the waters of the bay
move –
dance and sway –
to the siren call

the sun
speaks
in shooshing sounds

the shooshing song
of evening

and
I hear it

here

on the soft-sand shore

borne
by small waves

their white caps
breaking

flecks
of foam
in a waving trace –
the shoosh-harmony –
of a solar song

the source
traced in twinkles
leads away and out
to the horizon

never staying
still
it moves to quench
a glory day
that is robed
in peach
and
in orange now

~

the moon
has gone

streaks
of colour
replace her

soft blends of pastel

gold . . .

into yellow . . .

into aqua light . . .

and blue . . .

into darkness . . .

darkness
and stars above

does it always
begin
with the moon . . .

hanging
lazy

nothing better
to do
nowhere better
to be

~

there is
a holy place
down on
the water line

at the point
where a wave
will curl
across itself

whisper
a word
as it changes its shape
to greet the sand

roll the grains

gift
a shell

place a kiss . . .

tender

it is a kiss
that only yields
for that moment
of flesh-on-flesh

before it rolls –
slides –
away

back
to the deep
that is
the waiting bay

and that
is where
I worship
with my feet
aground

anointed
in the kiss
before it leaves

trying to claim
the sand
from beneath my feet
where I still stand
with my eyes closed

gazing within

my senses
know the sound
of the shooshing song
that began –
as it always does –
with the moon

and a prayer –
from me –
in a sacred place . . .

within the colours
of the star
melding
into the far water line

~

dead
line the shores

is that
unexpected . . .

it should not be

the shells of bivalves
and snails

vacated of life
and eaten away
by the sand
and the sea

gelatinous sausages
that could only
have been –
once –
jellyfish torsos

once

a pufferfish . . .

no
three
pufferfish
in various stages
of auto-inflation

one
with a visible
pink tumor dollar
on display

a look of surprise
lingering in resistance
to any call
of afterlife

kelp
and weed

some still vivid
when dry

some
dead as dead
when wet

and butterflies

lining the high water
along a mile
or more
of walking

white
cabbage butterflies
last seen
cavorting the garden
in lust or other play
some two hundred miles inland –
have come here –
to this place –
to sip
at salted water
and
to die

the world
is filled
with many
unexpected things

the disappearance of each
of my footprints –
erasure of all evidence
of my presence here . . .

my existence
is not
the least of them

~

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