I heard that the Chinese call this moon—
huge and beaming orange, on the line
that scissors out the fringe of South London—

an evil moon. I clamber at the scene,
fail to catch it with my camera,
the light so rare and fragile, so I glean

whatever dodgy frames of memory
can last within my cortical hard drive,
all locked up in my neural armoury.

Its dead glare let’s me know that I’m alive.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Jun 07, 2012 @ 09:58:22

    Not the first poet to write about the moon, nor the last I suspect.
    I liked the last stanza…to think of human memory as our own pre wired hard drive.


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