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8x8 relief carved Celtic moon woman ceramic tile
One Night in Spain ( Full Moon at the Bullfight )
Tonight, the moon howls at the dogs; her silent screams
echo in their dungeon dreams
where wild ancestors pace the dust
of ageless patience for their prison walls
to slowly crumble, one day surely fall,
as all the worlds walls one day must
Pale the naked moonlight shines with empty lust
for all that she can never touch;
her shadows and the distant sun,
niggardly that grants her few weak beams,
enough to stir up dog’s and lover’s dreams
yet leave her barren still; the lifeless one
Just once, just once to stand beside the primal fire
its touch to melt her cold desire;
to swoop down from the astral plane
and hunt the fugitive pleasures of
mortality; hunger, fear; just once to love
and quaff its bitter ferments, hate and shame
As on the firmament now tilts her rays to rise,
from sultry summer loft she spies
blood ritual below, in final spurt:
then with obscene and desperate delight
entwines her glare within the fierce arc-light
and hurls it at the sacrificial dirt
The tortured bull, on seas of leaden agony adrift,
to submerge it’s only wish,
through twisted catacombs of mind
has crawled for shadowed corner, there to hide,
there to face alone the rushing tide;
for peace, if only with last breath, to find
In poor mockery of passion moon flings her spiteful rays
uselessly into the fray
Off sword and mirrored suit they fly,
shattered and unseen, except by chance
one single, thin, illuminating lance
finds it,s target true; the round bull’s-eye
Bloodied and supine, the beast, of rage bereft;
its eyes, though darkening windows, yet
still admit that slender shaft;
by which chaste lunar glow is there revealed,
in that last refuge, dim memories
of moonlit summer meadow, cow and calf
Softly now through time the bull’s lost life subsides
back unto the other side
In tranquility the beast now lies,
and innocent again with mother near,
her gentle lowing sounding in his ear
The bull takes one last loving look, and dies
Poor moon, frustrated still by what she’ll never know
Takes her sluggish tides in tow
And scribes her lonely arc above the earth
Tugging at the hearts of beasts and men
Though how, she cannot ever comprehend
For she feels not our pull, so strong though we feel hers
J. A. Gresham
