Full Moon and Little Frieda —
A cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark and the clank of a bucket —
And you listening.
A spider’s web, tense for the dew’s touch.
A pail lifted, still and brimming — mirror
To tempt a first star to a tremor.
Cows are going home in the lane there, looping the hedges with their warm
wreaths of breath —
A dark river of blood, many boulders,
Balancing unspilled milk.
‘Moon!’ you cry suddenly, ‘Moon! Moon!’
The moon has stepped back like an artist gazing amazed at a work
That points at him amazed.