At the Equinox
By Hillary Bartholomew

when the moon is full
Jerry Bittingham's father
takes his milk from a jello mold
insists he can scry the future
through the opaque pond
of creamless blue; insists
that the shamrock shaped vessel
that he cups between his hands
is a true replica of the Graille
his brother brought with him
after the Great War, en route
to India where he died of the pox
three weeks before Japan blew Arizona
into 4 inch headlines

Mice skitter behind the counter
of the Green Man when the Downs
are creamed with autumn; nocturnal
rabbits leapfrog the barrows,
give chase to ancient wraiths,
who wander the marshlands
in search of the strange sleek ships
that once rode proud from the land
to the West; the lair that wombed
the mentor of Camelot before it was swallowed
into legends that burn in the embers
of the Fires of Azael sparking
tribute to the Great Mother.

When the moon is full
Jerry Bittingham's father
gazes into the simulacrum
of his shallow bowl, follows the future
as it slowly shadows around the firedogs
of the dormant hearth.
His wife, long since retired, stirs
as a figure passes outward
toward the violeting sea; wakes
to the breath of a silent breeze
softly kissing the chimes that hang
immobile behind the shuttered window
as dawn caresses the moon to rest.