Peering through the scratched lens,
take an eyelash: stroke your lids,
and wash away down the drain,
toothpaste stained sink.
Dusk wears such a sad face,
when she wants to, you let dust collect
on the stars my sister, why not
dust them off with your wing?
Why not perch on the moon
to hear them sing their song,
why not give it a try?
Spyglass spy in the dark
something so solemn
in the way that Dusk does it,
brushing back the clouds
and pining up the stars,
putting on her sunset sigh lipstick
and moon makes a fascinator
to fascinate you, circle you
dance heavy halos on your head:
angels, but not quite yet.
And then a shooting star
slides over Dusk's forehead
leaving trails of dust,
so brush it away with a smile.
Swap the lens: focus and flick the shutter
(25th April 2014)
YOU ARE READING
Blue Moon
Poetry"Still she haunts me, phantomwise, Alice moving under skies Never seen by waking eyes." - Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There (2012 - 2014)
