The moon's face fell
and a poet trod on it.
He apologised of course, stumbled
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
in a pavement puddle.