Before the night, there is a clear sky, and the sun has a
satisfied sort of glow. It warms a brisk wind so on the beach it matters not
that trousers are dragged through deep pools. Dogs and children run in circles
of exuberance. We speak of curves in waves and rock formations and stroke
fingers over the smooth levels that the storms have stripped. Gulls call, the
air is thick with salt. One lost boot is wedged in seaweed. In the rocks are
many things mysterious; the tide comes, jealously, to take them back.
Lying on hot granite, we eat ice cream, watch the seabirds
fly. Dog buries and exhumes pebbles. Secretly we are laughing at a man adjacent
who talks loudly of his lifestyle. In the car a spontaneous parody causes much
amusement. Ah, poor man, you did nothing to hurt us. You were a comedic gift. We
just knew by your desire to impress how fine and centred we are in our world.
Still, once home and sat, in dry clothes, sipping soup,
while Dog chews the ham bone retrieved from the stockpot, there is a pen and a
notepad waiting for a New Moon list. Our world is due some evolution. The
intention is to ask for it, to see what changes we can effect.
My Black Moon, the
ink scrawls out: and stops.
Laugh at my self, caught staring at the living room
clutter; laugh at how much this ramshackle stuff defines it. Any less my self
with more abundance: with less disorder? And what is it that we lack, anyway? I
know things to write on this list; a sloped field, a self built house, a
natural pool, an old ambulance converted to a camper van; but they are all of
no importance. The escapade is the core spark of it.
My Black Moon, may our quest persist. May we never
languish. May we ever acknowledge and let go: may those dreams kept unseen
crack their husks: grow.
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