Sinking the Moon

The golden moon sinks in the sea 

Tide moving ships round like clock hands

To announce the dawn. Another day

When you’ll look past the checkout girls

Take in the parade of grey hair, stooped shoulders

Notice that the ancient of days

Have started to look a lot like you; You

tuned to the tides, swung around 

sensing you have grown into him,  

that guy you used to warn yourself about.

Youth, health ebb slowly as the tide

No one thing or time of notability

Just a patient erosion of the surplus

depth, abundant buoyancy, confidence,

The last of it leaching down the shore,

chasing the receding flood 

Washing past the remnant barnacles and crabs

And the haunting smell of the drying decadence.

 © Philip Knight 2018