In silver cities of the moon they'll watch
earth's curve rise into view, the peacock
polychrome of hues reminding them
of where they're from, ancestors
who spoke different tongues,
deep oceans separating lands...
The opposite of water, moon
will cue the ebb and flow of tides
girdling the planet they still think of
as their childhood home, poisoned
by vendettas between neighbours
as it may be then,
nonetheless the cradle
their moon-vessels left, the mother-ship,
genesis in space and time,
fragile ark of life's advent...
Sometimes in somniloquies
the moon-born will revisit earth,
speak in tongues that flickered
in old songs presaging cosmic birth...