Damn you, Sun and Moon.
Why did you have to align at that precise time,
On that exact date to make Luna’s fleeting shadow
Fall there? For the sake of just a short delay
Could you not have plunged Leeds into darkness, or Dundee?
Why not somewhere, anywhere else? Somewhere nearer to me?
Or even faraway Orkney? But no;
Fate (and orbital mechanics, I suppose) chose
The Faroes to receive your chaste Brief Encounter kiss,
So I’ll give it a miss, thank you.
I’ll stay at home, reading breathless Tweets on my phone,
And watch you two meet above the park just across my street,
With Brian Cox tossing his hair on the TV.
Rather that, rather miss the total eclipse
Than a rucksack pilgrimage to a place that finds joy
In cetacean ethnic cleansing; where flashing knives
And new Moon scythes flense the flesh from creatures
With hearts a hundred times the size of their murderers’;
Where wave-leaping lives full of love and song are cut short
By savages with hooks, hacking, hacking, laughing
As blood fountains into their tourist-brochure-blue sky
And turns the water into filthy wine.
How could I stand there on a golden beach,
Bathed in the beauty of Totality and the glory
Of the Diamond Ring knowing that on some future day
Screams echoing from crumbling cliffs
To shingle shore would be ignored as giggling children,
Paddling gleefully through the gore, pink wellies shining bright
In the sunlight, trailed their tiny hands through the bloody water,
Proud parents looking on, agreeing the Grind had been “A grand day out”…
© Stuart Atkinson 2015