Maggie Butt

Blue Moon

Sometimes the day you long for turns as sour
as month-old Yaks’ milk, while the one you dread
blows in with floral breath. And this New Year
as party plans cocked-up, I sulked, remembered
past Lang Syne’s, champagne and fireworks,
Trafalgar Square with friends, punks kissing cops,
and year-two-thousand skies which flared and sparked
as we danced in the street and laughed nonstop.

Instead, the glowing coals and Christmas tree and you,
loaned telescope and moon so bright it made
the frosted garden ghostly day; a blue
moon which will gleam as other New Year’s fade,
till last, beyond my gate of ribs will be
this burnished full moon, at the core of me.

A blue moon is an “extra” full moon in years that have thirteen full moo