Poetry

Midday Moon

The sky's a scratchcard
and this shadow is your prize.
As if you thought too hard
and rubbed the clouds away.
You're walking slower than you should
up Woodhouse Lane. You've won
but nothing seems to do you good.
The day holds you like rain
and every question you could ask
won't come, or comes like this wrong moon.
Your lucky stars all whistled past
and left this new thing hanging over you.

Helen Mort