For those who doubt they are poets

Star Struck

Fixed for your moment in the sky’s turbulence,

its rose gold steadfastness

amongst the violet, mauve clouds, its highlights

lost and skipping battering –

our star,

the writers’ star – ‘Evening,’ to Coleridge,

apostrophes to Keats –

certain you could set your course

but for the wheeling of the Heavens,

the dealing of the winds,

the fickleness of clouds,

the waxing and the waning,

the thinning and plumping

of the lemon wedge moon,

the strawberry moon,

the bitter cold sliver of moon

ready for a teacup,

a g & t,

to decorate a fillet of fish

but for the wavering.

Take note of its presence,

fear not its failure,

trust to its shine

even up against the silvered brilliance

of the full moon,

the blue moon, 


the headless moon.

Trust to its rising,

its course,

its setting,

trust to its hovering,

its hiding,

its always taking its place

in the zodiac,

in the galaxies,

the constellations

there in universal space.

Do not ever be deluded

into thinking

things mean less,

that the penumbra

is an after effect

of the source.