I lie in the hammock, waiting for the moon. It’s evening now, the heat has gone, but the air is still sweet, the birds still sing, the fountain is still playing. A plane drones overheard, the woodpigeons are calling behind the house. The cat comes to join me, rubbing against the bare leg which hangs negligently over the side, the foot pushing against the ground, back and forth, back and forth, the gentle motion. I close my eyes, and see the red glow again, behind my lids.

I feel the tears come. Why, why, where are they from? Why the melancholy? Opening them, I see through a mist, close them, quickly, quickly, squeeze out these pointless tears, squeeze them away.

The tree branches form a pattern, I watch them as the breeze rearranges the leaves, a late bee still working hard, only a speck, but its silhouette is caught against the light. I’m in shade here, but look, over there, the old silver birch is still catching the sun in its highest branches.

And why, why, why again, when there are so many reasons to be grateful, why this dreary emptiness? Why does my life feel like a bad joke? Why am I lying here, lost and loveless, empty and wanting? The moon won’t be here for an hour or more, what is the point? Go inside, put some music on, make a cup of coffee, read a book. Why lie here, back and forth, back and forth, waiting for the one who will never come?

I roll round, put my feet on the ground, sit with my head in my hands for a few seconds before I get up, remove the hooks, begin to roll up the canvas. It might rain tonight.

I am almost at the door, when I stop and turn back. The blackbird calls, startled. I unwrap the hammock, put it back in place.

The moon will come. Of course it will. And later…maybe….?

Who knows.