Thakek Moon

The black of the trees and cliffs, shadows thrown in omega grey by full moon at night; the hardy life knell of the lone fisherman scoring against other life, his ray of flashlight oblonging along the ragged shore. He: in the water. The hunted: running, scampering from the water amphibious. 

               Others, scintillating by day, sleep above this sombre two-toned drama, the epileptic dragonflies and the silent crickets rusting away somewhere as the clear, crystal clear river runs between these hot grey cliffs.


               All sleep. All shadow and flutter. Way beneath the bustle of day the deceptive slither of night. Holy and sacred roll the latent waters, alone, separate and hallowed do branches dip toward the river, do their pale reflections ripple in the glistening flow.


               Black and white. Black and white. Black and white and grey. A lullaby hummed ever deep; ever joyously, ever silently and the moon above invisible as yet, to rise long after I have gone to bed yet risen somewhere and as yet invisible behind a growing crag and casting its omnipresent glow over this entire active dozing world.


               The moon, our silent bride, our delicious guide, our glistening glide. Last night it floated ever steady, breaching the darkness with subtle fluffy light. How does she sit up there? Always knowing when to rise and when to fall? Always wisdom casting upon our shell of a life, the reminder of her is constant, even when she is far, or hidden, or obscured by day-call or cloud cover or new and leaving the night breath to the heady stars as spread out as seeds tossed by the sower; they fell there after asking nothing from anyone, after being created and glowing pin points in their expanse of nothingness all hot and ember in the surrounding coldness and calling to each other: halt! halt! let us put an end to the cold darkness and cruel blindness of this vacuum packed breathlessness, let us warm and spread green growth, rivers and mountains, men and fish and beasts to give a little bit of love to this hectic cruelty. But of all this, nothing pierces through, nothing can defeat the empty. And as far as the eye can see and the ear can hear, as far as all our instruments can measure, we are the only ones and not an amoeba, not a single-celled mechanism exists anywhere else, not a damned drop of primal muck anywhere to sing the death psalm and the glory call to life.


               Only us in the fair black expanse. Only us and our falling autumn leaves and our dragonflies battling between light and shadow, only us with our fire-places alive at dawn and crackling joy to our 

hearts, only us with our heroin addiction to destruction in the face of our green blessedness; only our little blueness…only us.