The Harvest Moon

the yellow moon, the colour that i could never get right in my art class well who can it is never really yellow and when you add white it loses its luminosity full moon well when it is full it is never round if you look casually at it it bulges at one side with a tiny star twinkling at its side a little child crying to be carried but who cares except the round moon poetic moon as poets would write whether it is or not the little child that would soften their poem never given its recognition lazy bones are always copycats and they get the world messed up with their inaccuracies, self conceitness the moon, the next door amateur witch gives it a dose of evil chanting archaic verses for a love charm, bag of luck and a spirit in the wild the moon that boosts my spirit with its innocent roundness, a softness of a girl's buttock maternal's light, and the ways it slims, fattens, slims, wanes signs itself in and out of the sky inspired by The Harvest Moon The flame-red moon, the harvest moon, Rolls along the hills, gently bouncing, A vast balloon, Till it takes off, and sinks upward To lie on the bottom of the sky, like a gold doubloon. The harvest moon has come, Booming softly through heaven, like a bassoon. And the earth replies all night, like a deep drum. So people can't sleep, So they go out where elms and oak trees keep A kneeling vigil, in a religious hush. The harvest moon has come! And all the moonlit cows and all the sheep Stare up at her petrified, while she swells Filling heaven, as if red hot, and sailing Closer and closer like the end of the world. Till the gold fields of stiff wheat Cry `We are ripe, reap us! ' and the rivers Sweat from the melting hills. Ted Hughes