Reservoir Moon

Picked

feels like months
that rain has dogged us
still loitering here
while somewhere else is dry

as I drive through
the dripping forest
I like to think it’s hanging on
to its history of kings and queens

and whatever dignity
it has left
after being chopped back
to the reservation on the hill

a river in the valley below
feeds the London reservoir
a silvery mirror held up
to an unresponsive sky

no skinny-dipping tonight
for the moon no matter
how many taps we turn on
to persuade her down

that would take your breath away
like the sight of geese departing
across the water like Vulcan bombers
in formation overhead

let’s not forget the way
the moon behaved
the night frantic firemen
quenched the fire

almost draining
the reservoir
seventy-two residents burned
as she passed over the water

the goddess she’d become
remained aloof
trailing teasing veils of mist
or was it smoke

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