Who can find the moon? I ask at dusk.
We walk across the meadow, down the path,
hedges and brambles studded with crimson,
a dove flaps over bare furrows, rising above
hay bales, dried and stacked, whiffs of captured sunshine.
Near the river, we tug and pluck haw berries, rose hips,
toss handfuls from the bridge, plop, plop, plop,
lean over the side, waiting for the scarlet baubles
to bobble under our feet, flow away, to the Wash, to the sea.
Going home, the scent of manure like a creeping fog on the fields,
a bonfire – crackle, crackle, spit, pop, spark, hiss –
and the moon, large and luminous, coloured by flame.
I worked on this today in preparation for my Writing Circle this week. We’ll be looking at revision, meaning seeing again. Revision isn’t so much about fixing as it is seeing differently, from another angle, or more fully. This started as a journal entry written after a walk with the kids when last month’s full moon was rising. Today I took it through a few versions and it has turned into a poem. Still thinking about punctuation…