Extract
The Changing Moon's Face
I wake at 3am, longing for you, and watch
as the moon scatters powder from a silver compact,
over her small-poxed face,
then chases the buttermilk glow of sun
across the ripped ribbon of sky,
pulling oceans towards her in frustrated rage.
She gossips with the stars the next night,
telling them of the sun's wheat-coloured hair
and scent of bleached hydrangeas,
and how, come Autumn, he will send her
gifts of golden leaves in the breeze.
She will turn these brittle with frost,
before sending them back to him
in a wind as cool as steel cutlery.
All nights after, I have seen her weeping,
her eyes dark with run mascara,
the sky troubled, rain lashing at my window.
Far in the distance, I spot Venus,
a chain of cloud-patterns slung casually
around her neck, her face rosy and blushed;
a love letter spelt out to her in the sunset.
Sarah Gasson