All I am is a rocky ball, holding hands with your planet

circulating round the Sun like two over excited dogs.

I sail from horizon to horizon, across a blanket of stars,

hit by two Greek Gods play celestial tennis, “Zeus”

When I was created why couldn’t I have Earth’s colouration?

Rather than a dirty yellow, bit of roughly grated Wensleydale.

My relationship with earth is solid though, she loves me,

even the pockmarks on my face and my wobbly moon bits.

She still thinks that like I “totally eclipse”, her other lover

I make her ‘waters move’, sensually kissing, every, grain, of, sand.

“Other lover”, I say, “Yeah, calls himself, ‘Hugh-ma Be-ying’”.

He tries to woo her with pretty trees and her favourite flowers

but I know he don’t treat my beautiful baby girl right.

You sometimes call it ‘driving rain’ and ‘howling gales’,

but that’s just her crying because of the cuts in her ozone skin.

‘Hugh’ says he came here, to conquer me, crush his rival

but as with everything else he faked that landing too.

He has named songs after to divert me away from my, ‘Eartha’,

giving me a colour or new fangled name to appeal to my vainer side,

but I am not; blue, red, cyan, pink or any other colour.

There is a dark side to the moon, to be found on ‘Moon Rivers’ banks,

in the moons shadow, where Hugh turned the whole of the moon

into a bad moon rising, but they’ll be a new moon on Monday.

©Phil Golding 03/2006