The little girl was playing at the edge of the garden. She had decided, on this warm summer's afternoon, that she was going to be an archaeologist. Equipped with her beach bucket, a little plastic
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I will always remember
the taste of the Moon.
the crispy edges etched into
soft crumbs that
hold sweet fillings and
loveless bites
lotus flowers,
ripped
with vigour, torn
into the stems of pleasure
silver teardrops that fall
like snow in seasoned days
as the moon rises
fated forever
arrows sharp
like shining lanterns
scorched into sun
of ten, nine fell
the sweet dreams of youth
hence immortalised in memory
threatened
by the elixir of loss
I wait to seek you
in my own sweet dream,
a moment of triumph,
an eternal rest
so now I present to you,
handmade with love,
the words from my youth
forever sealed
in the sticky lotus
mooncakes
of my love.
I long to remember
the taste of the Moon.
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