The half-moon lit the figure of a cat,
but when I looked again the shadows moved
revealing nothing quite so feline as
a pot-plant. Once again I found myself
duped by the night; reflecting on the need
for proper observation from ‘the poet’.
What chance of that from me? That half-moon wasn’t even
a half-moon; any fool could see that it
was one celestial scoop of lemon sorbet.
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