White Flesh of the Moon

Swirl in eddies
Overhead
A slow spinning typhoon

To note orientations
And notations
I need quaternions and interpolations...

The music of the spheres
Is deaf to human ears
Or at least, this generation.

Yet a stick in the ground
Tracks the sun around
For equinox and solstice

But now we have machines
To complicate the scheme
Of seed time and harvest

I still prefer to use
The Earth as my cue

And a simple twig
I’ve rigged
To plot Ley Lines of tombs

Struggling to harpoon
The white flesh of the Moon.