Full moon

Full moon 

Full moon through the window
a creamy marble above black rooftops.
My husband stirs under the doona.
I should wake him, Look, a Tom Bowler.

But hear the creak of the house pining
as he flies again to a watermelon childhood,
a circle drawn in Wimmera sand,
one eye closed tight, tongue sticking sideways.

Playing for keeps, 
he flicks the milk glass taw with his thumb,
and the Tom Bowler, creamy swirls with a blue streak, 
shoots out with a soft clink.

(Published 2025, 34 to 37 Degrees, Southcoast writers)