When I am out alone the moon is a surrogate mother,
She is not a silver slither, not a cold shiver,
She is full like the apple cheeks of a 1920s film star face,
An old photograph, sepia grace, that’s ageing in stains like nicotine yellowing the paper.
My scalp is spangled, twinkling.
Old barnacled umbilicus crusting the bottom of a boat like pasta bake,
And the boat sails plump, salt tears like Alice in her glass bottle,
The waves are consuming and the Brighton pebbles shift like a trap,
The stars are zooming at me shifting and changing so I catch one.
And the moon crashes down too singing that she dreamt of me but I replied that I shall sleep soundly so I tried.
I sail over to a friend to give her the star that I caught,
But she’s in a ward and they’re too sharp for her to hold,
The leaves are dying and it’s got cold,
But it’s far from morbid, the Earth is starting again new,
And I’m trying to get to pumpkin warmth from icy blue