By Bridget Mohan
They say the moon steals the sun’s light,
And we know that is a lie.
For all her searing energy,
Even the sun grows weary.
She needs another to take charge
And maybe they are miles away
but as soon as she lays to rest,
Then the moon starts.
His surface is scratched up,
Covered in dust and craters and scars,
But their darkness he discards,
Makes them an honourable badge.
His beauty is unmatched.
The days are beginning to lose their length,
and her strength is slipping away-
Winter is about to arrive.
But his presence turns the tide,
And she thinks maybe she can survive.
Time has evened out.
I stand still and look up to the sky
Knowing that winter is nigh.
Never so low on hope.
Then, just when I think I can’t cope,
To unwrap the black of this autumnal night,
You cast everything you touch in warm orange light.
Now I know I’m not Young,
But I need it to be sung
That I am still in love with you,
Because you are my harvest moon.