Moon
Last night, when the moon
slipped into my attic-room
as an oblong of light,
I sensed she’d come to commiserate.
It was August. She travelled
with a small valise
of darkness, and the first few stars
returning to the northern sky,
and my room, it seemed,
had missed her. She pretended
an interest in the bookcase
while other objects
stirred, as in a rockpool,
with unexpected life:
strings of beads in their green bowl gleamed,
the paper-crowded desk;
the books, too, appeared inclined
to open and confess.
Being sure the moon
harboured some intention,
I waited; watched for an age
her cool glaze shift
first toward a flower sketch
pinned on the far wall
then glide to recline
along the pinewood floor
before I’d had enough. Moon,
I said, we’re both scarred now.
Are they quite beyond you,
the simple words of love? Say them.
You are not my mother;
with my mother, I waited unto death.
About this poem
This poem was included in Best Scottish Poems 2012. Best Scottish Poems is an online publication, consisting of 20 poems chosen by a different editor each year, with comments by the editor and poets. It provides a personal overview of a year of Scottish poetry. The editors in 2012 were Zoë Strachan and Louise Welsh.
Editors' comment:
Otherworldly and yet familiar; here are the ‘strings of beads in their green bowl’ and the ‘paper-crowded’ desk, illuminated by the ambiguously ‘cool gaze’ of the moon. And then, in the penultimate stanza, the narrator has ‘had enough’. She has learned the hard way, and she speaks openly and with strength.
Author's note:
My poem 'Moon' was written, as it says, in August. I always look out for the stars in August because that is when they return after their summer absence. On this occasion it was a big Lammas moon, and its light haunted my garret room.
