‘Moon phases as seen from Earth’ by Glyn Edwards

There are crescent moons forming
up my fingernails and crescent moons
bitten at their end. The bare light bulb
is a full moon. Briefly, the flaring cigarette
become a full moon. When I stare through
the new moon at a bottle’s top like it’s a telescope,
I find another new moon. Last night, a storm
bent the oaks into waxing moons and now
there’s too many moon seeds at their roots to mass
into polished handfuls of moon rock.

Boys kick a full moon around the car park.
There is a quarter moon curvature to the unlit lane
where memories pass like waning moons
of an argument, when mouths were gibbous moons
with malice. A busker now has a new moon
in the middle of his guitar and the new moon
at his feet is half-filled by full moons. His black dog
has two moons behind clouds for eyes. I cover
my face to hide the cold moons on my cheeks.

Moons catseye the carriageway below me
and full moons are fastened to the front of cars.
The rain is making moons at my feet.
Every disturbed puddle is a moon phase.
The moon is so-called as it measured months.
moon, mona, metri, mensis – you made us chant it,
made us discover moons everywhere. A person jumps
from this crescent moon bridge every month.
Six moons have passed since you died.

From issue #13: spring/summer 2022

About the Author
Glyn Edwards’s Vertebrae was published by the Lonely Press and In Orbit will be published by Seren in 2023. Glyn is a PhD researcher in EcoPoetry at Bangor University, and has an MA in Creative Writing (Poetry) from MMU. Glyn has been the poet in residence at the Chester Literature Festival and the Dylan Thomas’ Boathouse, and has had writing published by Verve Press, The Guardian, Poetry Wales and the British Council. He works as a teacher in North Wales.