Island Blog – Moonlight and Shadows

05.15 and something wakes me. Light. Light has a sound, or, more accurately, a vibration but I can hear it as well as feel it. As a sleeper just below the surface at all times (thank you motherhood) any change in what was becomes a new what is and this morning’s ‘what is’ has pulled me out of my dreams and back into my bed. I was floating high above the world, looking down whilst faces long gone joined me, their long gone voices humming familiar. I turn to check the window and see light pushing around the blackout curtains, almost aggressively, demanding to be recognised and framing the thrush eating strawberries patterned curtains like a huge canvas. Light is calling me up and out and there she is, huge as a giant’s eyeball and looking pinkly drunk. Aaah! I sigh and just know I have to respond for sleep has left the building, that fickle friend who always seems intent on escape for unknown reasons. Perhaps, I wonder, as I buckle up my fluffy and impossibly white dressing gown, sleep also needs sleep. Has anyone ever considered that?

Downstairs at a dash and into the sunroom where my breath escapes in a whoosh. She is magnificent, overflowing with soft pink light, a perfect sphere in her dying throes. I kind of plan such a spectacular death as I imagine we all do although I don’t really want this spectacular death throe-ing thing to last thousands of years. Just saying. There is so much beauty up there among the dying, it wonders me how our own can be so unattractive by comparison. I watch her for a while, only noticing I am no long breathing when I get that underwater feeling, my lungs screaming at me to get back on the programme. She watches me. We eyeball each other. A few passing clouds try to eat her but she simply lights them up, sapphire, rose quartz, a lace rainbow veil on a bride to be. As they pass, I see a lunar halo, cirrus clouds glittering with ice crystals so high up in the atmosphere to be reassuring. There is an atmosphere, for now.

I sit with coffee in the not dark, the silence absolute for even the firstbird song is halted in the face of such majesty. Moonlight shadows pin my walls in the shape of geraniums, the blooms salmon pink and almost luminous in the lemony light and on the backside of this wide and slow dawning, as the moon submits to father sun, sinking to her knees behind the hills, deep grey clouds like flying saucers hold in stillness.

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