Moondance Poem by Nick Burbridge

Stanmer Park, late afternoon;
we come for a partial eclipse of the sun
but Molly has us press-ganged
in the belly of the woods
to shore the bothy built
last time out from torn boughs
and broken bushes still in leaf
to masquerade as a night-shelter
for some lost family or other.

She knows what she does;
with each weft and bind of wood
the shadows of a dark man's lethargy
which circle her crookedly
and threaten her mother's strength
retreat as a pack from kindling flame,
and we are left warmly lit while we weave,
making of this what it is not: a stronghold
that lasts as long as she dreams.

But this is a rare hour;
as we climb back among scarred trunks
we reach a bowl where the sky arcs;
from blade to blade each spun thread's caught,
thicket and boulder burnished;
what seems to demand faith is naked, luminous,
and where shadows stretch and splay
in a strong hold of stained palms
our child swings across the sun.