Octaves Under A Full Moon
The moon hadn't come past the chimney yet
slow sailing the night like a laden ship.
An unquiet woman worked to forget
the line of a leg, the rock of a hip;
no rind's so empty as that of regret,
no cup so full into which it can't slip.
She drank, she sipped green leaves and December,
tried to forget, or hoped to remember
till the moon came over the chimney at last
till wind combed her hair from front to back
till night had its way with today, with the past.
the stars snuffed out, the clouds gone black,
the white hot spotlight marked over the grass
its honey and lamp oil, fancy not fact,
dust storm desire runs ravenous rednot to blow out the fire but flare it instead.
posted very late, a short ottava rima for Kerry's Sunday Form Challenge: Yeats' Octaves
at real toads
Images: Moonlight, The Old House, 1906, by Childe Hassam
Landscape of Ruins and Fire, 1914, by Felix Vallotton
Public domain via wikiart.org