Blood Moon

Look, said the moon

rising like smoke above the coire 

to gild the inky breath of 

snow

while one white hare 

becomes lynx,

its crimson steam spinning 

across the unmarked meadow

to curl its sky 

into my dense night shadow.

It’s gone, I think

heart pounding for hares everywhere 

ears trembling soft   

long feet too close 

to the sea.

An owl branch snaps 

over night story stain. 

Look again, says the moon 

and I see it.

Beyond the bloody darkness

a circle remains. 

It is enough, says the moon, crowned

by sunlight,

to turn the tide.

I watch

as the lynx stills, whiskery-twitches.

Gently, like a lover, lifts the 

broken hare body. Slips, like a stone

into ripples, its tufted moon eclipsed 

by a wave of trees.