|
|
Pamela Coren
Phases of the Moon
First it was one of those tired evenings,
and she sorted the sky in silence, muzzled
by the day's rain belt coiled slick along the rim.
All space jumped and twitched to the electric
irritation of astronauts. She fretted at herself
in her foxy mirror, finally sat it out,
careless and cool in frumpish yellow gauze.
Next night she expanded, slipped into
a shiny starred lycra sky, lifted silver wings
hooked to her sleeves and floated tra-la round space
like a drunken friend. Rice cake clouds lined up:
it was all star dance night, cosmic karaoke.
No gloom Bloomsbury rocks in her pockets,
a time lord blazing her change, higher than a kite.
The third night was a surprise: and two . . .and three:
stepping backward she danced with Mars,
lost behind a bulk of dust, smiling over his shoulder.
We were fogged like wallflowers. Next morning
she lay late, brilliant above schoolchildren.
When first she calls she makes you ache,
screaming at the barriers for the slim boys passing.
|
|