Her face is round,
her days are old;
the Moon is sad
for she is cold.
She needs a cloak
to keep her warm,
to wrap around
her ghostly form.
She reaches out
across the sky,
with silver fingers
long and lithe,
to touch the cloth
she has in sight
so far across
the deep dark night.
A cloth so fluid
scintillating,
iridescent,
ever changing.
Abyssal hues
and liquid form,
silkier
than the finest shawl,
yet heavier even
than thick brocade
with constant play
of light and shade.
She pulls the cloth
towards her face,
but planet Earth
who has no grace,
has riches more
than she could need,
is mighty vain
and full of greed.
She pulls it back
towards her shores,
that deep blue ocean
she adores.
Poor Moon is left
all cold and bare
because her neighbour
just won’t share.
And so sad Moon
will try once more.
The two will tug
for ever more.
@ChloeJPoetry (22/2/16)
