Sharon Black



A shutter swings – the moon blinks on,
angling itself through the pane.

No point hiding under the bedclothes –
I confess everything:

Yes, I borrow the stars without asking,
unhook them from their orbits,

set them to spin
in the plain blue of my eyes.

Yes, I have drunk the Milky Way dry,
joy-ridden the Plough,

plumbed the depth of 3am
and passed it off as my own.

Once I dipped my brush into the Aurora Borealis
and painted winter green.

I’ve loosened Orion’s Belt, undressed Casseiopia,
stolen the show in a mask of midnight

pretending it was me.
I have chained my black dog

to a barren corner of the galaxy
and left it there to howl.

By 5am I’m limp from exhaustion,
my eyes are red; when I look up

the moon has withdrawn, left me
with its tougher colleague:

an empty sky.



(from my collection 'The Art of Egg', published by Two Ravens Press)

Copyright © Sharon Black 2012