Before the last full moon of Autumn rises behind the hill. The last full moon of Autumn.
Last night it left behind a silver sand, on every blade a crystal strand that morning light made sparkle, turn to tears, then fall remembered winter to the earth. And all the leaves have fallen – summer's skirt – scattered in reckless tatters round the yard. The bare-limbed beauties naked move inward, their progress slows, their whispering of May flowers blurs to snows, and voices once as light as Light sound deeper in the throat, so deep I scarcely hear them, or scarcely wish to know. The house entire is like a ship at sea, night-ship lighted bravely against the vast and empty waves. Or not so brave: the huddling heart lifts a guttering candle against the void, but the strongest blow it out, take heed of senses that most would only doubt, say I am I and step into their night.
I should turn some house-lights out.
The last full moon of Autumn waits for us behind that hill. Waits for me: what's her hesitation? Does the earth stand still? The burden of clouds, the mother's robes obscure the range of heaven, hold us in her watery womb; the father sweeps the curtain wide to bare the glory of the void. Between one's clasp and the other's push we wander, today certain, tomorrow shaken with wonder.
I know some geographic lines. Behind the hill the river washes land into the sea, and tidal in its nature pours the sea over the land. So salt and sweetness meet, like lovers in their harmony, or day and night, or right…. and right. The tidal force is all in water's way, they say, but now I think that may be shallow sight: the land invites the water in, the water takes the freely-offered soil, and hand in hand the two perfect their trail, night after night.
Who dares to think there is a force that acts without its mate? The Law is clear on that. Water and its beach are one; land and who loves the land are one; so any act of entry or retreat is just a single sound that rings through one which seems like two.
Beyond the marsh and its pulsing river-mate there is a band of trees, a stand of stones, a rail-line over them superimposed, a house or two on higher soil, then trees and stones again. Walking, this is how it all would seem. But on the wings of birds or speeding by on man-made wheels, the flash of earth and growth subsides in one hand filled with minutes, it quickly flattens, broadens, and flows into the sea. The last full tide of Autumn rises beyond that hill, beyond my eyes' geography, back where the moon hides her head in a sleepy hollow, back where the night grows deeper and deeper still, until the imagined light of houses spills like burning torches into brine, the ink-black soot-backed waters wash unfathomable patterns under sky, until the void of heaven mirrors depth of sea, and everything around us and above us carries me to you, and you to me.