The Moon as Mistress.

Tonight’s walk was on after all. The wind fell to nothing, the sky cleared, the temperature dropped to below freezing and the moon was full. Perfect conditions for a well wrapped up gentleman to take a leisurely stroll with a beautiful lady. And so I did.

She stayed to my left all the way to the bottom of the lane, floating high, bright and resplendent up among the tree tops, peeking and smiling frequently through the branches, and then showing her full, startling majesty where there were gaps. When I got to the pub at the bottom of the lane, she stopped and waited until I’d walked to Sarah’s house and back. And then she smiled, radiant as before, and accompanied me all the way home, this time to my right. And with every step she demonstrated the power she has to turn a nocturnal lane into a surreal succession of alternating light and dark pools.

When I got back I made a detour to the far side of the garden, just so she could treat me to the sight of my house, half bathed in her light and looking, as Sarah’s had, like a Victorian woodcut. There I stood for some time on a lawn turning frosty, communing silently with a sense that defies description.

And, best of all: judging by the station she is keeping tonight, I think there’s every chance that she will bestow on me the rarest of treats. Only at certain times of the year does she smile through the window when I retire in the early hours, casting moonbeams across the bed and painting shadows on the far wall. She doesn’t do it often, but I love it when she does.