the moon on a hot night:
two-thirds full but I can see the shadow of the rest of it
bright enough to catch the furtive tails of the cats slinking along the wall
not bright enough to drown out the weak city stars
trembling their faint pinpoints against a grey-washed light-polluted sky
weird enough to paint ghosts in a too-soon-summer miasma
bunched-up fists of clouds skittering like air-rats around a knothole
the moon looks down, and forgets:
the world washed in chrome below.
- Kathy, 28/11/17
(This is post #28 in NaBloPoMo. 28 down, 2 to go!)
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