I spent last night talking to the moon. We have not had a conversation for some time and she was being very vocal. My garden is roughly square and at this point before it becomes autumnal, festooned with trees and shrubs, all cut and coppiced to different levels. You sit on a deck in this herbaceous circle and hear the plants breathe.
But last night they were mainly silent. Perhaps some gentle whispers but in the main – it was me and the moon.
The Moon was almost full. She was shining through a light mist that surrounded her with a halo. The houses, the cats, the neighbours in serried flats, the lamps, the closed shop fronts, the long church that looks into my garden with an illuminated clock face: all was in hush, in awe, as I was speaking to the moon.
And what did she say? Just these lines, interspersed with silvery streams: like a tinkling whisper, a cat’s vibratory purr quietened to just below a barely audible hum:
She flows into the sea
And with her combines and flows all of me
The Ganga as she flows through Laxmanjulah, Rishikesh, Utarkhand, India. Picture taken by me.