#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
Oh, the day, starting so early, at 5:00, so I have to wake the dogs, for once, I have to go looking for Charlie, where is he sleeping, and Suzi, where is she snoozing? We strike out at sunrise, breaking the habits, because I will go early, with company, into town and won't miss this time on the beach. But up Prospect Hill, I'm lost in thought and so sleepy in my grogginess we're a long way before I realize Suzi has dropped off somewhere, left us. She's missing. For no apparent reason. I start to turn back with Charlie, hunting for her, but I reach Frank in bed who tells me Suzi is back at home. Strange! So, Charlie and I keep going without her. And I realize she is missing her breakfast, that must be it. Well, the sun's coming up on the beach, and Charlie and I are the witnesses with the gulls.
In the afternoon the clouds gather and threaten as we drive the car full of us to Lucy Vincent. Who cares? We'll give it a try, hoping the rain will hold off. And, for a little while, long enough, it does. Gloriously, a few of us swim in the surf under the purple storm clouds in the dashing waves which are actually calmer than they've been all week, and I'm so sea happy I don't want to stop, but the guards come in their yellow t shirts and whistle us out of the water to shore and by the time we're at the car we're getting wet. What a lovely good time. Gushing skies, drenching rain, washing, washing all the sand away.
After dinner, we all want to see the moonrise, this elusive full moon. The clouds linger, but we try. We fill the car with eager people and drive to Menemsha; where we believe in the moon we cannot see is faithfully rising, full as can be, into the night sky.
Here is a piece of the fabulous poem I find to celebrate this moon, found at the Poetry Foundation:
“Something needs to be said to describe my moonlight.
Almost frost but softer, almost ash but wholer.
Made almost of water, which has strictly speaking
No feature, but a kind of counter-light, call it insight.
Like in woods, when they jostle their hooded shapes,
Their heads congealed together, having murdered each other,
There are moon-beings, sound-beings, such as deer and half-deer
Passing through there, whose eyes can pierce through things.
I was like that: visible invisible visible invisible.
There’s no material as variable as moonlight.
I was climbing, clinging to the underneath of my bones, thinking:
Good God! Who have I been last night?”
All photos and text ©Kelly DuMar