A Lunar Chart

Blackness drips into the sky,

Curdles round that frozen white:

A crescent tale of woe is spun.

Remus Lupin is his name.

Think of a sapling stamped upon;

Think of laughter smothered;

Think of wide eyes sung to sleep

By punctured bits of morning light.

Now grown in size it staunchly hangs,

The crescent bloated round and round:

It pulsates over willow trees.

The shrieking of the wooden walls,

The winding of the tourniquets,

The churning of the alibis,

Round and round and round they go.

At last the stars are flooding in,

With fur and prongs and wriggling tail:

The silent night is washed with pink.

Mister Moony is his name.

Think of a map that speaks and laughs;

Think of a kiss long overdue;

Think of a smile on a father’s lips.