Over the Moon. Under the moon
The moon rises above the rocky spine of the island
chalking the brittle harbour dusty white,
like an impatient customs officer
telling us to go.
There is no colour under this Aegean moon,
only a pallid sky.
It reaches unsympathetically
through the window
and marks PASSED across your shoulders.
No stars in the sky now,
but the floor is still white with moonbeams.
They flow over your toes
like spilt milk.
No use crying over that.
© Mike Absalom
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