John Garth Raubenheimer
Muh And The Moon
In the high blue sky
a crescent widening into a grin.
I shot into the house.
'The moon's falling down.'
'Muh was gutting chickens.
She said, 'Let's go and see.'
The crescent looked ragged.
'It's a vapour-trail, ' said Muh,
'Being blown by the wind.
From a plane, look. Very high up.'
I saw the tiny dart,
it's trailled feather.
Muh wiped her hands on her apron.
I thought it was Duh
who put our feet on the world.
Now I see that it was Muh.
As the earth yaws,
as planets threaten to collide,
I remember Muh -
my mother - and the moon.
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