Moonlit Campfire is hissing with discomfort at the fine rain of a passing shower. The rain is chill on our thin clothes - it's been a temperate day - and we are woken up and our senses sharpened. We glance, one to another, marvelling at the mist we each emit, from mouth and nose.
Kathleen Jamie appeared on an ABC poetry podcast ages ago, reading her poems with her wonderful Scottish accent. The final poem this month will be one of hers.
Those who know me more deeply than most will know that I feel some fascination for the moon; the moon is vaguely significant for me.
Poems and songs aplenty have a lunatic theme. Jamie wrote a few. Here's one. IIt probably appealed to me more when I was working, and too often distracted, but II still enjoy reading it - for various reasons.
Moon,
what do you mean,
entering my study
what do you mean,
entering my study
like a curiosity shop,
stroking in mild concern
the telescope mounted
on its tripod, the books,
the attic stair? You
who rise by night, who draw
the inescapable world
closer, a touch,
to your gaze - why
query me? What's mine
is yours; but you've no more
need of those implements
than a deer has,
browsing in a glade.
Moon, your work-
worn face bright
outside unnerves me.
Please be on your way.
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