The Moon

A full moon. No stars. A wind that batters the rafters. Darkness that creeps around you like a cloak. We face the wind as hunched beings, bent double, unblinking, stoical.

In the city the moon is redundant. His luminous beam is outshone by the streetlights and the helicopter searchlights. Where is the escapee prisoner? He will not outwit us. No crevice or corner is unlit. We will draw him out.

In the country the moon is the only light. On moonless days, a stark darkness reigns. From nightfall the light endeth. Torch beams pick out the eerie, iridescent green glow of sheep eyes. Eyes that apparently have no form or substance to them. They hang in the dark like jade stones.

In Spanish the moon is feminine. La Luna. I once the discussed the merits (and fairness) of a feminine moon with a Latin American scholar. Why should the radiant sun be masculine I questioned. But the moon represents romance he said. Love and fantasy multiply when darkness descends, secrets and shadows prevail. Surely, the feminine, the fairer should be the moon, her black cloak shroud shielding her vulnerability, her delicate features, her mystery?

His works drew me in and we kissed at dusk. Later she shone, reflected on the lake before us, as if on cue. A bold and bright beacon to our fledgling feelings.

In the morning when El Sol awoke and poked his head on the horizon we could feel the magic slipping away. I left as dawn broke; his brightness burned my eyes and dulled my senses.