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The moon, hanging around into the cool blue light of early morning, blushes a deepening peachy yellow, caught out by the sun. From my bedroom window I watch as it slides silently towards the mountains glowing with a warmth that betrays its character. Just hours before the moon splashed cold, silver light into this room from a black sky and cast hard shadows across the floor.
It sinks quickly against the lightening sky and I watch as the mountain swallows it inch by inch until it is a sliver of orange light, and then it’s gone.
Beautiful imagery in both photograph and lyrical prose - the eye of an artist, the soul of a poet, Heather. You grab this cold and falling moon, as it cuts sharply across your bedroom floor. An evocative and resounding image spartan and crisp. Reminds me of that 17th century Japanese haiku poet, Matsuo Basho If you'll permit me, here are a few of his I admire:
ReplyDeleteSleep on horseback
the far moon in a continuing dream
steam of roasting tea.
The farmer's child
rests from husking rice
then sees the moon.
The moon so pure
a wandering monk carries it
across the sand.
Basho is in good company.
Beautiful photo, Heather!
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