L'aura del Campo

Moon's mourning cloaks

At the Reading on Thames, I relearned the word gleek and "like an automobile that embraces all its passengers" was amused and enlightened by James Shea who owes the world a poem about bear poop and bright red berries.



Moon's mourning cloaks

Thin sliver of foreign cheese chased by Venus,
wine's chorus of evensong,
what existence is this?

and why does the coming of night
feel womb-like in spite of the chill
and why now the silence

the choirs of starlight
hushed by thick clouds
intermezzi of rain, winds and tree limbs

in the mad madrugada
a stillness, a ceasing to weep.
Blank eyes no longer peek

at the moon in her mourning cloaks:
purple, now rose
paling to pink.

© Kåre Enga 2010-10-16 [167.224]



The original prompt was "and the moon with her mourning robes, purple, now rose, turning pink". The moon was waning but still a slivered crescent. The thought flowed from there. I hope it can be interpreted various ways, according to the mood and thoughts of the reader.

More poetry! ...and the Maltese Falcon.


26º at 8 am. Went back to bed, but did get up before all the frost melted.

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