A sickle moon

It having been summer for five
days any human being goes off to
sleep uneasily, akimbo, because
that blot on the white ceiling might
be a spider or else merely

a wodge of solid black left
in some building operation when
they were doing those renos on
your house's old fabric, quite
recently. And in this morning's

Age your horoscope was rather
melodramatic for a Monday, I'd
say: it being no more than
an insect-warm day, just right for

a really lush green salad with
three little cutlets generously
basted. On the six o'clock ABC
news our plump treasurer looked

disconcerted at his, I wouldn't
quite say, gaffe but there it
stood, plain as the nose on somebody's

face. In December's climate sandals can be
just the bee's knees, encouraging
the getting around on your newly-brown

legs, until the blurred hour comes
to sleep uneasily again, because
the trembling white gossamer heads of

Queen Anne's lace out there cannot do
anything to soften downright human

disconcertedness, nor ease hay
fever, which is nearly over this

fortnight, I'd be inclined to say.
Venus glares beside a sickle moon.


Chris Wallace-CrabbeChris Wallace-Crabbe's most recent publication is the late-modern epic, "The Universe Looks Down" (2005)

 

 

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