Eclipse
of the Moon
Where the leat widens
into a pond's eye
the water is black but clear.
Two goldfish the boy
poured from polythene
play dead, peach slices
at the bottom of a dish,
or splinter the dark with light.
At
this winter season
the woods are feathery
brushed with colour.
Branches' moving patterns
meet their doppelgangers
at the water's edge
where another forest begins.
Clouds scud and drift.
This
is the border of difference
between waking and sleep.
Dreams mirror a world
bent from day's norm
by the mind's refraction.
Last night, riding a nightmare,
I saw a blood-rimmed moon
stare at her own drowned face.