Reblogged from Jane Dougherty Writes:
Once, they said, the moon was round and glowed like a pale sun, casting soft grey shadows on the grass. Once, the moon was fat-bellied like a pregnant woman, and shone with the same splendour. Once the tides rolled waves up the strand to the dunes, then drew them back to leave a mirror, bright as pewter. That was then, long ago, in the times before.
Now, there is no grass, there are no tides, no seas.
Now the moon hangs by a thread, stubborn and obtuse, from the same star. She neither rises nor sets, grows neither fat nor thin. She no longer commands the tides and the cycles of the earth. The moon is a crescent, a bitten apple, broken and defiled by our constant warring.
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