Written on this moon

by Pauline Sturges

The sun is pulled below the far-off hill
and at my back the super blood wolf moon climbs slow
to light the folds of moor

on this eclipse, as snowdrops break from winter’s cold,
life rises from the still-chilled earth but with the buds
and shoots come grief

when we are gone, imagine tarmac overgrown
with weed and debris from perpetual storm,

plastic windows intact still but torn away
framing only blackthorn shrubs

among our ruined homes where wolf packs prowl,
their scented excrement laced with microbeads,
worm will thread its indecipherable rhymes
on this warped table top.