The moon smiled on the wine dark sea. As we all know sometimes, there is a long moment every night when time stops and another kinder kind of temporal slow march takes over from the hurly burly of the usual tick ticking that measures the race’s race through the days.
It’s a moment when the celestial rowers whoosh by the satellites on high, and strange shadows appear on the radar screens to be murmured over by technicians who know better than most that beyond technology is a kingdom of night with its own rules and regs so strange we can only mutter weird little rhymes about space that curves into itself and black holes into whose folds galaxies disappear to emerge maybe as crumpets on Mars, who knows?
Actually, the moon knows. But she keeps her secrets to herself for now, while fishes with spirits come to the surface and with little mouths go gobble gobble they’re eating their flies and plying their mistress with questions. Sometimes, if you stare hard enough you can see the moon shrug her shoulders and whisper a gentle “no” like a lady in love who is saying she’s sorry, things are not quite right, no, not tonight.
As for the breath of her yeses, so rare, it’s so sweet; it mingles with the air from the flowers and wafts among the crickets, who sing excited melodies that capture all that beauty in rapturous song. And this night, the notes of their hymns were so loud they caused goose bumps on the skin of the dolphins who cavorted just off shore with baby sharks whose mothers had left them in their care for these hours.
@Copyright David Clarke 2016