Postcard from the Moon

I once saw a piece of moon in a box.

The pocked face hardly rocked –

it leant perchance to mock

the humans, brave as gods,

in filthy diesel machines,

filthy carbon-spitting machines,

as soft as hard dreams,

pirouetting down with ease.

And this chunk of rock,

squat, benign in box,

was like a postcard from heaven,

‘wish you were here’ at the bottom –

but no name.