The moon, a poem

Photography & Words By Patrick Kerry (@PatrickOfSussex)

The moon doesn't mind.

I can run along and fondle the apple blossom,

Shout my hellos at wood pigeons with my mumbled Haywards Heath accent.

Dip my head in the orange, iron rich river soils and

poke at the Purple Toothwort.

The moon doesn't mind.

It's there, or not there, always watching when it can see, listening when it can't.

It pulls and pushes me just as much as it does water,

The pond down in the wet meadow doesn't move like the sea, but I know it rises and falls with the moon.

Full of life - newt, frog and snail.

The moon doesn't mind.

I can walk upstream,

I can walk downstream,

I can stop to talk to the big oak.

The moon doesn't mind.

The cuckoo flower and wild garlic are sprouting up along the river bank, the trolley sits in the river, gathering silt.

That big pipe is still there,

The chub of the woods,

Some could say it's an eyesore, for me it just is.

A marker of height and growth.

The moon doesn't mind.

The log falls for me to sit,

The words flow out like river.

A dance between me, the moon and the sea.

~