Moon at Half Past Noon

The same strange coast.
The same salt-sprayed air.
Two figures pause to chart their leaving there.

One unfolds a vellum, traced with light,
Turns a weathered page by candlelight,
Tracing each course by a fixed,celestial name.
Each rock and whirlpool has a role, a claim
The compass needle, true,
Trembles forth a north the eyes can’t view.

The other holds no scroll,
but weighs the stone,
Studies the tide’s pull, the current’s moan,
Maps the cold mathematics of the wave.
Their north is drawn from what the sea-gulls gave:
A star’s cold fission,a wind’s constant press,
The beautiful,terrible meaninglessness.

At dusk, a squall. The promised stars retreat.
The first grips the rail with unwavering feet,
Eyes shut,lips moving to a silent psalm,
A steady anchor in the inner calm.
But in the lurching dark, a clutch of dread—
A single,silent question, quickly fled.

The second stands, face bare to the stinging cold,
A story of courage in the body’s hold,
Gazing on the chaos, raw and deep,
That grants no promises it means to keep.
And feels,not triumph, but a lonely ache—
The hollow where a prayer would break.

The dawn finds both still sailing, side-by-side.
One reads the light as a grace they can’t deny.
The other sees the sun’s atomic fire,
And feels a gratitude without a sire.

Two hands, one wiping spray from off the brow.
One tilted upward,one that’s on the prow.
The same thirst from the same cup is met:
The terrifying wonder of the not-knowing yet.