In ancient times the moon was a woman; goddess of the hunt and wild animals. She displayed gentleness and steadfastness.
I, on the other hand, knew the moon was a man. A youthful crisis found me meeting him. He was lying on his back like a drunk beetle waving his legs in the air – trying to right himself.
The moon ate the dark, kept me company and lit my way. We did not need to speak – we knew all that was needed to understand each other. He knew that I was driven out of my home by loneliness and a desperate need not to be myself. I knew he was grateful for my company in his bloated state.
Since then the moon has been a friend. Constant certainly – going away but always coming back. Gentle unless he needed to be otherwise. This night he was engorged with contentment: his light almost too bright.
In the park I heard music and voices. Quiet voices; not arguing, not boastful but trying their best to be seductive, enticing. As I got closer I saw I had stumbled into a dance. My heart quickened just for a second and then I remembered that I could not dance – due to a quirk of fate that rendered me without grace and rhythm.
One of the dancers stood between me and the moon, head briefly shining with a silver halo. It was a lunar blessing and with this dawned a human wary smile. An arm outstretched, an invitation.
With reluctance I turned away and the moon wrapped himself in a cloak of clouded shame. Now darkness spewed from the moon again.
I am a writer from Dorset, England who has recently self-published my first novel called “Herai” – a fantasy exploring what happens when people are deprived contact with nature and sunlight. This is the first installment in an eight part series provisionally named “The Wheel of Eight.” I blog at A World Without a Sea