My friend, the moon. Earth’s constant companion in a universe of uncertainty. Mirroring my own life since the day I was born. I’ve written posts about the moon before, when the supermoon came to town just before Christmas, and other posts before that. My moon-landing conception, my birth on the day Apollo 13 should have landed and didn’t. This strange affinity…
As a young lass I dreamt of becoming an astronaut, of rocketing off and leaving Earth and its problems far below. I would orbit our world instead, on the moon. Imprint lunar dust with my trainers.
Instead, from my bedroom, I would track the moon round roof and chimney. Sometimes in the early evenings it would loom up from the horizon, swollen as a sunrise, vermilion as a nosebleed, each drip-splash forming a crater. It turned straw-coloured as it rose, prickling its way up the sky. Down on our pock-marked and puddly road I’d watch its metamorphosis, from large copper tuppence to a high silver fivepence, etched with the Queen’s face.
Mixed analogies, I know. I was very young and idealistic once.
Since then I have fallen down craters, dusted myself off and continued my orbit of life. I’ve hit dark patches, but found my way to the brighter ones sometimes with a compass and sometimes without. If I’ve ever found myself spinning out, my gravitational pull has drawn me back home. As long as the moon is up there somewhere, I am happy. I am safe.
I took this image this morning, from my front garden. When the moon is no longer full the ragged edge of craters can be seen. Image taken on a Fujifilm FinePix SL1000