A silver metallic Moon has shown up at my bedroom’s window.
Its hidden through a veil of grey thin clouds, which seem to be pressing against the jagged mountain line in straight horizontal banding. She, who used to be a huge and round disk of bright light, is now smudged in all directions, with charcoal of darkness.
It feels so surreal to watch it slowly rising, as I’m hiding behind the leaves of the ancient Pohutukawa tree that surrounds the house like a good spell, and warmly tucked inside the warm bedsheets. The moonshine that breathes in union with the waters of the harbour… Delicate and rhythmic, the tiny light spikes beam onto the edge of the sea, barely touching it, as if pinging it to see if it’s still alive. I’m bewildered by their soft rise and fall, while out on the windows the oval leaves are restlessly moving across the firmament, fingers caressing the skin of the night, they cast a sharp-edged black frame to this misty and imprecise Moon painting.
