Sunday, May 16, 2010
Lost on a Moonbeam
A silver slip of a moon is showing from behind the dank dress of darkness. Radiant is the night sky in its very shroud, like the blackest heart of a diamond. The ghosts of trees are uncovered in my intrusive headlights. They appear to be sleepwalking, those trees, with their pale eyelids loosely shut and their hair tangled in the blackness. I see the stretch of the sea rising up before me, and if I could, I would drive full force straight into the waves, headlong into the horizon, and steer myself on a moonbeam to the world on the other side of the moon. There is a garden there, you know, just like Howard Pyle told me about in one of those books, those books a "grown-up" like me shouldn't read - as if fairy tales were only for children. The blinker, steady and impenetrable, guides me to the left, and life winds up along the coast on auto-pilot.