2 – Blue Moon

The wide, whorled moon shell

n’est pas bleu

its chalk-white shell shattered

so only the round face gazes

at me from the rough-washed sand

here, four thousand days away

on this full moon, blue moon way.

Here, where, in our future perfect

we will have sat by the quay, again,

eaten mussels in that broth with wine

sun on our weary faces,

facing Le Vieux-Bassin

your smiling moon face

what I will have remembered most,

a rare find among the ebb and flow

of this dream whorled world.

IMAGE: Moon shell, Naticidae. POEM ©2018, Jen Payne. National Poetry Month 2018, #2. If you like this poem, then…


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