moon haiku
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Twenty-nine haikuTRANSCRIPT
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Moon Haiku
Marian Webb
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Moon Haiku
Text and illustrations © Marian Webb 2009
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Past noon the blind moon kisses the eye of the sun, blind in the lit mist.
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In the dark no thread of light sews the moon’s circle to the hem of dusk.
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Night falls, cloud-palled—quick— where is it—the quickening invisible ray?
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Bright sickle flying in grey glass bound for Venus— O beautiful sky!
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You drove your shadow in its gilded rim beyond the horns of Saturn.
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Into the blue hour you trail like the plumed iris of a peacock’s tail.
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I could eat the moon, that butter glaze tasty as a good, fat croissant.
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Half lit, half vacant, weightless you fall through heaven scissored clean in two.
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Underneath the world the moon is swelling. I dreamed about an island.
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Indigo brazens the gold. A dazzle of thorns rings the half-limned hare.
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Planets trail over the silver beet. Moon climbs high gathering more gold.
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The seas are a bruise, grey ache of shivering flesh dim as the pale cloud.
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All waters follow the cold weight of the stranger like a bow drawn tight.
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Rising white, a mask of stains, she lures the rivers coursing within dream.
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At zenith the gold flares rocketing high above midnight’s slim ether.
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O you drown the sky you pool, you fountain, you round eye raining your gold!
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Past midnight the guests begin to leave the wine-stained table, still glowing.
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Shadows scud over the silver like the flicker of lonely Garbo.
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The bat-black roofs edge the blue light of her cloud veil. That blue steals my breath.
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I am ripe, I am late fruit longing to fall deep into sweet Shiva.
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Ripe as the moonbow hanging on the swollen moon rising from flood tide.
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Westerly she sails, ghost ship on the blue morning empty as vapour.
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A sliver of peach you are slim light to dream by. Slim fruit, slim comfort.
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Your cold horns point deep into time the dark mother of unending stars.
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Dark trees finger you a silver twig befogged, low as the dim foghorn.
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Back lit, a gold ring you rise in dawn’s sapphire. Red Mars is a ruby.
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I sift the ashes looking for a trace of that phantasmal silver.
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Solar winds rifle memories, reveries, fears— they flurry like hail.
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And they come to rest like scissor blades precisely pointing the same way.