Man In The Moon Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Man in the moon,
Hunched buffoon
Of a Mr Punch,
When the cow runs away with the spoon,
(Gay dreams of a Marc Chagall)
We will all leap over you.

Already our emissaries have landed.
Infinitesimal one,
You are accessible.
Now, we can pocket you down to size.
Bleeding scythe, tide tetherer,
When you are round and whole,
Small and safe as a wonderland,
I could swallow you like a pill.

Sky-disc, High-Druid priest
Of the great necropolis,
If I rub you like Aladdin
Will you moonshine me
A little of the way?

There! You dropp in a pond,
A perfect halo.
But touch you, and you shatter,
Like footsteps in quicksand.
Cold stone, hanging alone
On the edge of nowhere,
Deceitful owl, dark cowl
Of cuckoo day, impassively there,
Drawing circles in the night;
Star trinket,
Lover and lunatic's delight,
Would you like a little worship?

Man in the street,
Father, stranger, brother, lover,
I could make a moon of you.
You could be silvery, heavenly, a deity...
But you, too,
Hang on the edge of nowhere;
When you dropp in a pond,
A perfect halo,
I touch you, and you shatter.