In the hazy mid‑morning light, the moon lingers above the trees as if carrying a memory too heavy to hold.


Descending
Descending through the treetops
the moon appears to stop —
pausing for a moment,
looking despondent.
Naturally, I ask
“Why such a gloomy face?”
“Only a millennium ago
the earth was a jungle of trees,
but now I perceive
only a fallow globe of woe.”
The moon moves on, whispering its sorrow to anyone willing to listen.
Ivor Steven © May 2026

































