Yellow moon, just above the river, crossed by cloud, lighting the way. I saw it between the houses, out across the marsh, before the bends in my route swung it out of sight.
Whose illuminations are these anyway? Why should they submit to any person’s gaze? Whose air fills the great divide between what we know and the unendurable beyond?
We have filled the sky with waves and pulses – radio, micro – but care only about destinations and arrivals. Ends.
Truth is invisible, fashioned as magic. And the dark could sink a yellow moon. Most would hardly notice if it did.
MW Bewick 