From Eoagh 5

MOON, INCIDENTAL

You are suffering from a cold
that has not quite arrived.
Streetlamps turn on like impractical flowers.
The light leaking from buildings

waits around the corner for you.
A shock to see trees crumbed into this.
You are the last to enter the park,
the rain is in wreckage around you.

Walking your many shadows home
the rooks are grains of truth,
their voices have the quality of darkness.
At the other end of the park

a man in a fluorescent jacket sits on a bench.
As if looking through white wine he
can see you. It is his job to lock the gate.
Geese speak of that moment of departure

as the river’s text breaks open.
The moon’s dome rises to see its page
ripple over the river’s muscles.
You walk towards the cars bleeding home,

the birds shriveling on their branches,
clouds adding the usual ramifications.
Information leaks from buildings and trees.
The night holds up a moon clear enough to show,

above the cigarette-glow of a telecom beacon,
imperfections in cloud cover, torn newsprint.
Cranes stand in sleep making the same gesture
that the wind redistributes, and a lamppost

holds a swarm of leaves in place.
Like a song about to waken
in a radio-alarm, moon manifests as a lucid
interval that evenings won't dissolve into.

© Giles Goodland 2009