There are times in the month
when the moon goes soft,
her pull relaxed, diminished,
leaving the sea to drift
in a gentle whirl of sea bird
and circling weed,
a time when little moves,
gulls cry lonely and questioning,
moments to gather and reflect
on what she has given
and what may yet be born
without urging her birth
or demanding she receive our seed,
allowing her to rest
in the gentle pace of slack water
drifting quietly in shades
of grey and blue.
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