Glass a yet silent,
milk bottles, poised
above concrete,
suspend my evening ritual
as tall, slow-striding Orion
gathers momentum,
hurdling rooftops.
His bright constellation
dwindles beyond shadow;
the wings of my childhood
folding, unfolding, lifting
through dewfall. Beyond
the bright orbits
of lidless-eyed birds,
their solar wings glinting,
I breathe space.
With icing on each of my senses
I glide down, out of Orion,
one late November,
to a cold, red-cardinalled doorstep,
my mother beside me.
Her finger, casting,
sets my sight skimming,
the sky’s dark surface,
touching six symbols:
‘His belt and his sword,’ she says.
She winds in the line
then, pointing again,
has caught fascination.
Four stars, wide, bright locations,
thighs and his armoured shoulders.
Time-risen this giant
would welcome winter,
cold nights no longer friendless:
Orion and kinship
forged on that doorstep.
Time trails fine dust in passing,
sky-gazing less frequent,
yet, once in a blue moon,
as I welcome Orion,
the space between bottles
and concrete,
glass finally clinking,
is measured in light years.
If you would like a copy of Blue Moon by Ted Walter, email your details to steve@makingconnectionsmatter.org