Crescent moon and stars on upper back

The moon came down again on Tuesday, and I am writing to tell you how it went, because your mother will only say it was a fine night. The crescent had snagged itself on the bell tower of Saltmere again, the way it does when the wind comes off the marsh too hard. I climbed up with the long brass hook and the wool cloth, the one with the lavender in the drawer, and I did what the wardens have always done. I rubbed the craters until they shone, one by one, and I counted the pocks in the silver so the ring would not forget its shape.

The old face in the curve woke up halfway through, as it always does. It yawned, the way a cat yawns when it has been called from a warm chair, and it asked me, not unkindly, whether the sea was still in its place. I told it yes. It said it had dreamt of a girl who could fold rain into paper birds. I did not ask what became of her, because the moon never finishes its dreams in a single night.

When I had finished, I flicked the cloth against the sky, and the dust from the polishing rose in a thin line, like sparks off a forge. Each speck caught the light and hung there, and then it went on climbing towards the top of the dark, where the sky stitches itself to the ground. You will see them tonight if you look up past the chimney. Count seven. I have never got past seven, and I think that is the point.

Love, Nan Aldous