Before this night-pelt touched
us, dusk showered
its dim grains through
oak-leaves as we followed
a long grove & its filament of stream down
to the granite coast & clifftop-path. Now

sky’s black/blue cloud-layers, peacefully violent, break
& dissolve

              around a green moon

whose ragged metal ingot slowly resolves
her perfect circle; mints
her nocturnal tender; then casts
her crimp-beam across
sea’s scare-blue layers. Across

dark-wet parchment she has written
translucent bones: a wriggle-mesh

of gleaming skeletons. Now the headland ends

in chess pieces or granite galleons projecting stretched
shadows on salt where her bone-beam backlights.
 

A full moon
has made
sea a stage.
Our gazes

follow

a boat’s light
passing over
black/blue fright
until
moonlight makes
the boat-shape
dazzle blackly.
The craft floats

its revealed dress
briefly through
her beam’s width.
Then gone.

Its part
played. 
Back

to being a spot of huddling photons on dark. The diagonal

skyline of the headland juts
tors; moonshine condenses
on their edges. St Loy’s Crag is

a faint metallic cream curdling
on shadows; a crashed
spacecraft cooling; or a knight’s armour shattered.

                                    To you the moon
                                    is orange, its beam
                                    red fibres wriggling;
                                    but I see greens.

                                    So we talk

                                    of men’s & women’s
                                    sight ? the differences
                                    & red/green colour
                                    blindness. We lie

down together to feel
bright touchless drops of stars rain
down their stillness. We make

our gazes follow (but not measure)
the, as you call them ‘mad’, precise-straight
trajectories of satellites: white-hot points,
each like a surgeon’s laser,

crisply passing across

sky’s photon-freckled & stretched 

                                    dark blue smooth skin ...