The moon is crossing with a bright jesters face with skin like a frightened chicken.
Waxy trees of egg shell hanging hooks slide through the hall of blood and feathers.
The first man made arrow hits the slaughterhouse, a third of the earth shakes.
Moon Crossing was a place outside of town, magical and unreal. Two young lovers set out to see it; they walked between trees and followed the abandoned railway track.
Then above the skyline they saw it, in a coat of silver light, the moon, crossing over into the afterlife, with a smile like that of a jester.
The first man made arrow was a throwing stick maybe until it flew across time and landed at your feet, a sign, do not pick it up it will surely turn into a venomous snake.
Drifting about hither and thither, an autumn leaf in the wind. I admire the autumn colours of the forest; I must follow the fluttering autumn leaf. When the moon is the priest of the twilight then we shall be one; my autumn leaf and I.
Early in the morning I walk through the industrial estate past the shrieking gates of the slaughterhouse .
The conveyor belt didn’t stop, hit the big red button again. The slaughterhouse is like a black star, and everything not nailed down is sucked into machinery and dies.
Moon Crossing, you’ll see it from where you are, above the silver fields. The jester has gone; the moon has a new feminine face. Watch her cross over the fields perspiring with light. You feed your gaze on her illustrious shine. You listen, will she speak? You feel as bright as the moon, she should acknowledge you as you watch her cross over but then, she is gone from sight.