The moon shines like a lone child on a Sunday afternoon –
abandoned in a forest, filled with the scents of
tall grasses and fresh animal blood.
A familiar lull – unsettling.
The sun is on the precipice of setting –
its colours casting a dull orange glow around the moon’s body.
Turquoise tides roister in the wake of its call.
Dragonflies flit and buzz around in drones.
The scraggy barks become darkening drapes,
in shades of malachites, olives and jades.
An envelope of green.
Snakes slither silently, moving towards their prey.
Owls wake up to hoot, and the birch trees careen –
the wind a sudden discourse of tremendous violence.
The peculiarity hangs in the air – heavy, unnerving.
Tumbling fronds in a purple haze of twilight.
A spatial appropriation.
The moon smirks.
Passing clouds cast a shadow on the creature.
A penguin waddles its way
in this half-light of the night's storm.
Stepping on wet foliage,
crying, shouting, pining,
calling out loud, for help.
Let's not forget who we are:
Destroyers of homes