Drawing Down the Moon Hilary Llewellyn-Williams
First, clear a space for it.
The moon needs room to breathe,
to swell and shrink.
And don’t just think of the white disc,
but the light around it.
Remove all rocks and stumps,
nettles and cabbages. Be
ruthless; this snare must be smooth
as a coin, and fine
as the skin of your eye.
Next, take a rope, and cast
your circle. May everything
in the ring attract moonshine.
Then hammer wooden pegs
around the shape, pulled hard
against the wind, which would carry
your garden, moon and all
away, if it could. Remove
your coat, and get digging.
Right down to the subsoil,
two foot deep in the middle,
shelving towards one end. Use
a level; if the ground tilts
your prize will spill. Heap the spoil
high to the south, for shelter.
Strew sand for a bed
and tread it firm. Ignore
your neighbours’ sidelong glances
as you unroll shout polythene
to keep the precious rays
from running out.
Stretch it tight across the hole,
weigh it down with stones
and feed in liquid
to the brim. Stand back
in admiration. Wait
until nightfall. Say
the spell; and behold the moon
in your garden, swimming up
through nets of water.