The moon's face fell
and a poet
trod on it.
He apologised
of course, stumbled
into darkness.

He felt his way home
through the forest,
fingering the trunks
of familiar trees,
but tripped over
their tangled roots.

He cursed his luck,
vowed to get even
if ever he made it
to his lap-top and
in his head, he wrote
a moonfall poem, her

brilliance face-down
in a pavement puddle.