Eclipse of the Harvest Moon. Version Two.

Equinox moon
dragging her swollen body
through the harvest skies.

A blood red goddess
heavy with ancient children
that can never be born,

never be given life
in the cold heavens
above the fertile earth,

the fecund biosphere, so
vivid with pain and beauty
and rich beyond measure.



And we, true acolytes
in awe of this blood red moon,
walk in our mutual loneliness
under the autumn stars.

Under a rare conjunction
of moon and distant sun:
the crimson face of the goddess
cut through by a black edged knife.



As we walk we speak of the time
when you lay in the hospital bed
with our dead child placed beside you,

an infant perfectly formed
but cold and white as marble,
her heart too tiny to beat.

A victim of our imperfections.

A cruel and needless sacrifice
to the insanity of self love.



Thus we talk to assuage our grief
as we walk across mown fields
to observe the great eclipse,

a singular natural event
made holy by ancient magic,
the primitive dream of redemption.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
28th. September. 2015.
14th. October 2015