Full of Moon

I think the moon may have got in somewhere
bright and silent
and I didnít notice.

Old rhymes disturb my sleep
make me dance in time
with rustic children
that are not in the street below.
Far away
fleecy sheep on bony legs
run from the wool-gatherer;
after-images roam
like wolves.

Balancing my bike with care
I set off around the world
wishing I could change my mind.
White flowers are brave
and milk-warm cows turn heavy heads to stare,
interrupting their eternal rhythms,
wary of wanderers.

I enter the last phase.

The clock strikes once
and covers its face with its hands.
The moon is a sickle
and Time is an old, old man.

By Frankie Webb 2007

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