“The Rising Moon”

On the toffee patio stones—breath white smoke, a personal mist. The road before you over a short brick wall, capped in slate. Gentle chatter from inside, the occasional car shuffling past. You breathe in deeply—air like mouthwash, fresh and lightly minted, with a core of ice. A lone runner, grunting over the hill, goes by, shorts and hoodie and luminous sash, and you exchange knowing nods. You look straight up—the clouds in purple fjords, the stars set in distant lakes of aether, a half-moon rising above this pub which they indeed dared to call The Rising Moon—and knowing all is well in the universe, you can at last go back inside and finish your dessert.

between country clouds
stars pop out and say: “hello”
and I always blush

By Harris Coverley


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