Frost Moon
The frost moon, herald of winter rises over sea,
slack before it heaves and turns true north, back to Arctic.
On this shore I give it a fistful of sand,
ask that I will hold fast,
as fragments of crab, razor clam and glass sift between fingers.
I tick like time, remind the far-away me
that this too shall pass.
The frost moon is buttered by setting sun,
soon it will climb high, become cold.
It will eye us while we wrestle the day down.
The sea sings its score.
its bass tones sonorous beneath distant cries of seals.
As the song encourages sleep, I become liquid,
slip under the door, find my way to the thrill of salt,
the pull of waves, the solace of black night on black water.
Josie Moon is a poet, performer and community arts practitioner based in NE Lincolnshire. She loves the sea, gardens and the big skies of the east coast. www.josiemoon.co.uk