A chance of fresh air,
just for a while to escape the house
to soak in the residue
of life, this point of it all,
to sit and gaze up at an old god
and thank him for dancing
with the moon.
The moon, I used to fear her,
hanging there like an afterthought,
blood soaked in my dreams,
far too many nights watching
Hammer House of Horror when I was small boy,
the Saturday night ritual
I was allowed wonderfully to explore
from such a young age,
thrown head first into fiction,
thrown to the wolves
of Dahl and the enticing,
alluring woman,
provocative, sensual…
of course I had no idea why she brought passion
to my mind but like the moon,
I was awestruck in the fear of rejection.
The chance of fresh air, soaking
up the light in Waterloo, a moment in the book shop
where my first two meagre samples
to literature sit and wait
patiently for a hand to hold them
in the moonlight.
Ian D. Hall 2017