On the edge, the Moonraker stretched a branch

towards the silver orb. Reflecting in the lake,

she milked her luminosity and poured herself

over the wooded scene watching the folly

of his lunar way, as he desperately

sought surface depth.

                                      She rippled slightly.

 

In residence, the white-robed mannequin,

with flame-haired wig and silver tiara,

waited patiently, unblinking in the night’s light.

He continued to reach past the years,

along a road to the bad business left messy

at the sharp bend.

                                She swayed slightly.

 

Back then, he had left something behind.

And sometimes the figure in the old, framed picture

on the mantelpiece climbed down and tried

to comfort him in a cold embrace.

And sometimes ice crept into his bones,

cooling his flame.

                               She shivered slightly.

 

He stretched still further, straining to capture

something floating, flickering, out of reach.

A distant owl, torn from its reverie,

alighted from a branch and called for its mate.

But the rebuke of silence held everything,

fearing the screech by the barn.

                                                       She trembled slightly.

 

He blindly stumbled forward – ever-reaching.

But still the lake held its secret: still and adrift.

And, as that night, raindrops disturbed.

In the pattering swirl of confusion,

an ebbing of lost days lapped against him.

He melted in her baleful light.

                                                    She waned slightly.

 

The Moonraker continued to call out

for his mate, in the hope that there would be

an answering pulse. That something would gurgle up.

But her light had darkened out of sight,

vanishing behind gathering clouds.

He swallowed dark air.

                                        She faded slightly.

 

Then purpose returned, wading with resolve.

Tap, tap on the surface. Deeper than his bones.

The flailing branch dip, dipping into her wound,

as the trickle stained her white dress.

The flow was too deep now and there was nothing

but to watch her drain away.

                                                  She drifted slightly.

 

The bubbles began to rise about him:

a frantic bewilderment. Rain now poured

onto the lake breaking the white disc

into pieces of shimmering confetti.

The drumbeat had stilled, stifled by life’s

unexpected obstacles.

                                       She wavered slightly.

 

In residence, the moonlight had been swallowed

in cloud. And the figure at the open window

watched unblinking, as a rain rivulet formed

around the orbit of her eye and slowly

started to trickle down one cheek. A distant owl

kee-wicked for its kind.

                                          She feinted sleightly.