And there was the Moon,
like a bilious balloon.
She was sheeted in linens
of heavenly loom.
This ghostly attendant of summer entombed.
This spirit ascendant,
This prophet of doom.
On cresting a Sunday night hill
And there was the Moon,
like a bilious balloon.
She was sheeted in linens
of heavenly loom.
This ghostly attendant of summer entombed.
This spirit ascendant,
This prophet of doom.
Aremyfeetofftheground 
One response to “On cresting a Sunday night hill”
I was just watching the Blood Moon eclipse. Then I read this. Great timing!
LikeLike