John Garth Raubenheimer (21/12/1947 / Johannesburg)

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.