The Sunday Weekly poem looks back a few days to the full moon on 12th November. Without outdoor light polution, the full moon is particular noticable where we live in rural Ireland. Even the waning moon last night cast a luminous glow down our uncurtained corridor. It’s unavoidable when it is cloudless. And if it is cloudness in an Irish November then it is cold.
Indigenous peoples had names for each full moon. Some work with the climate in Ireland, other’s less so. Sturgeon is not part of our culture. But Grain works for what is happening in our August Irish climate. While there may be no beavers in Ireland,we certainly have known frost some mornings this week here in Corrogue.
Somewhere it is snowing already and some mornings we could characterise it as a Frosty Moon. However, we have had a day of literal deluge at the full moon this week. Others have experienced flooding as the high tide went higher and broke records. Another of the November full moon’s names seemed appropriate for this week’s poem – Hibernation Moon.
That day it poured enough to warrant both paddle
and ark-sized boat. All domestic livestock gathered,
hunkered in, lying close to their humans.
Sleet spattered windowpanes. Thunder folderolled.
Knuckledusting cold had to be taken on the chin
if you opened wide the door of your winter cabin.
We are all become bears in our day dark dens,
listening to snores, counting out the number of naps
(though who drowsily keeps score when to sleep
is to invite dreams to shake you awake moonstruck
in pre-dawn gloom?) Only the cold, cold moon penetrates
the seamless dark of our hibernation’s nest,
the still, stark truth of our dream-filled designs.
Copyright © 2019 Bee Smith. All rights reserved