from Voices out of Kilpeck Church

xii

moon

Pebble-brained and older than Eostre –

we scrub up well – stone nomads

following our stone noses, considering

the weight of a crow’s egg, the shrinking pond

and the freedom of light – tight-lipped

and blunt eared, we’re a closed circle,

a rampant quango facing the bone-plot,

each cold Will following his own death wish;

each and every one of us has watched the sun –

God’s eye – blacked by the moon’s white fist;

the moon herself, squatting among the graves,

bleeding into the grass and out across the corn.

xiii

tonight

the moon is a sieve; a two way blister pack

stuck to the heel of Orion: panning in,

fading out. With her darker side guarded –

as we carry ridge-beams – she carries night.

She’s a jumped-up goddess; a great black beetle

hobbled to the stars. We watch her

lean against the sky – the clips and stills

of this two-faced matriarch – her smudge of milk;

a scratch in the dark, her silver snatch, now become fish

flipped onto her back filling her sickle-self with ice,

while we her foundlings wait, beside ourselves,

for the pull of the graveyard to bring us down

to touch her snowdrops and to feel

against our stone cold soles, the shrug of puffballs:

their struggle towards the light

of this anxious mother who, tonight, with cloud and mist

her spit rag, looms in to polish our foreheads.

Miriam Obrey