Tatters

There’s a strange comfort in the way the moon wears its pockmarked flaws—not in its light, but in its quiet decay.

Tatters of the moon. Photo by Marty McGuire on Unsplash

The high moon I saw wasn’t
exactly the right shade
within the tattered blanket
that we call the night.

There was but a tinge of
disappointment, old
and bereavement, bold that
commemorated gold.

And in this seemingly perfect
pale yellow stardom
the moon did outshine all
the “tatters” that shone.

I, for one, always looked up
to this ageing mass
donning its own tattered blanket
as nights went along.

And I, for one, had always
praised those days
when its masquerading greys
faded night-light away.

Irrelevant what you call it,
my pale moon is grey,
irreverent are its scars that
hide in light’s shame.

That’s why I’d rather toast to
its hauntingly cold wash
that dims away every tatter in
the blanket of my nights.

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