Here on the edge of this great southern land
The new moon takes a goblet’s stemless shapes
And not the crescent of prophecies grand
That gilds the flags of faraway landscapes.
Perhaps it mirrors a tumbler for scotch
Or bowls for the sweet fruit of our lush groves.
Yet it is a highlight of dark night’s watch
And bids the stars sparkle in glistening roves.
Above tiered layers of cerise sunsets
Our satellite seems oddly proximate -
Early human musings must have feared threats
From such a strangely changing astral state.
Tonight it rose above the winter air.
I could not fight the urge to stop and stare.