We have just had an eclipse, but here is a re-blog of a poem
I wrote 19 years ago:
That week we ventured outside at midnight,
when a shadow gradually snuffed the moon,
till the reddened orb, deprived of its light,
stared like the Baptist’s eyeball. In high noon
we think the spotted sphere no longer there.
All the primitive tribes rise to my mind,
who must have viewed such an eclipse, despair
weighing stricken hearts. How they must have signed
to each other when they became aware
of its reappearance. So a small group
watched the waning of their Son as darkness
covered the earth, but they were to recoup
The Light of the World. This Easter I bless
the God of Heaven for resurrection,
looking to the sky for inspiration
through my cataract eyes. So inspection
of the new moon tends to celebration.
Astrological symbols directed
men to the babe. Lunar allegory,
which by most people would be rejected,
confirms for me the Good Friday story.
Most of the time I look through the wrong end
of the telescope; get a false picture;
let the neon town lights obscure my Friend;
forget he’s an omnipresent fixture.
He who controls the weather, cycles, tides,
is sometimes indiscernible through cloud;
never disappears, though he sometimes hides:
rises like Lazarus minus his shroud.