Written 1st of October, 2026
for weekly poetry challenge
The Dark Moon The garden holds its breath. The gate has misplaced its shape. Beyond it, the dam keeps only the stars that have fallen in. The Young Moon A sliver of moon silhouettes In the dark branches of the gums enough to find the washing line, my hand against the rail. The White Moon Each night it finds more of the yard: the cracked birdbath, the pail beneath the tap, the chair you left facing the creek. Each morning, less of me remains at the window. For several nights, nowhere is dark enough— the cup on the sill, the unlatched gate, the possum’s startled eyes burning in the grevillea. The Old Moon The brightness withdraws: first from the water, then the fence, then the chair, which becomes only a chair again. Above the roof, one pale hook unfastens itself from the dark. I close the curtain without looking back.
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