The moon loves the ocean. She lives in it, but every night she rises so that she may sail through a different sea - the heavens. She is like a coracle, round-bellied, hardy. She navigates currents, storms, cloud-swamps. And her seaweed-coloured eyes look down upon the waters, and her smile is solemn. At the last she dives down again into the ocean, for no matter how much the sun may adore her, it's the dark she wants most, the peace of the deep.
We went over the dusky meadow, looking for the moon on Christmas night, but could not find her. Finally, as we were walking away, one of us happened to glance back - and then, in the smallest moment, glimpsed her behind clouds. So we sat in the grass and waited.
And when she rose into view, we lit a little candle to welcome her.
She was the fullest I've seen her in a long while (although she looks crooked in these pictures taken by my inadequate camera.) Fat with summer light, and with all the glory of the king on this special day when the world honours him as star child, the dirt-born lord of us all.
Sunlight flared against her cheek, her brow. But she was gazing down upon the ocean, and I could almost hear the ocean singing its long soft night-song back to her.