Tasting stone, again, as I chase
your white light tempting, teasing
my waves. I yearn against my mass
for air; long for release even
as I swell and fill each crevasse,
moisten each cave, stir life into fish,
drive cracks into rocks, catch crabs, toss
each bone and moment, fight against
my fate and task and life here on
this earth, without you my moon, my
love, my emptiness, my wholeness;
my loss and my joy. Stolen.
I destroy, and give life, and destroy
again, to return, return, return
beaten and condemned, to tasting
stone, shaping stone, making stone smooth
like you, and round, and white, my moon,
my moon – I swoon, make moons, not you.
Not you. My creatures call: ‘not you’.
Break me, break into me, break me
come down, at last,
Stimulated by We write poems‘ prompt this week (The other side of nature) – not something I’ve done for a while. I’m thinking of the way tides are the seas’ response to the moon’s gravity, and a vague idea of the moon having originally been formed by somehow being broken out of the earth, with the holes left behind filled, now, by the ocean – wanting a return to the time before they parted.