Posted by: iansales | December 30, 2009


Floating above a landscape all the shades of grey –
over plains of gunpowder snow,
the blanket-like folds of mountains,
and the scalpel-edge of shadows.

A pilot looks from a small window and
is filled with words he cannot articulate.

With the sextant, he checks the command module’s course:
predicted position is off, a factor of ten or more…
As he arcs above the Sea of Rains
where no cloud can form
nor rainbow add colour to this bleak land.

He knows the cause, and compensates.

Would that we could do so too,
when our path strays and our dreams slip from our grasp.

Our trajectories through life cannot be so readily computed.
When bent out of true, they cannot be so handily compensated.
From the small windows of our soul, we see
all the shades of grey.

But we dream of colour.



  1. I enjoyed that, Ian – particularly the scalpel edge of shadows and the dreaming in colour. Post more!

  2. Neatly done; some very striking similes, and a thoroughly convincing overall trajectory. Lines 13-14 veer a touch too much towards sentiment for my taste, but that’s probably just me.

  3. A fellow Apollo/moon nuts adds a word or two of praise. The poem is pared down, unadorned and pretty damn close to perfect. Well done…

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