Stumbling back to bed after a pee
I’m startled by the stalker moon, peeping
Thomasina through the spare room window.
Intruder, interruptrix: she’s looking a bit
rough around the edges, her complexion
in need of dermabrasion or at least a gentle scrub.
Tonight she shows her age: well, that makes two of us,
as I fumble across the landing, hair snarled, breath soured
in my faded pyjamas. Old moon, you may control the tides
and they have turned. Seductress to slattern
is a slippery slope, as maiden moves to matron moves to mess.
Moon, harsh lantern, you arrest me in the paparazzi’s flash,
mirrored, captured in my cratered flesh.
