Moonlight Sonata

The sun is rising as I walk up the hill. Yes, I know that is an awkward juxtaposition when one is writing about the moon, but there you are. This is the way it happens, so there is little hope for practicality or sensibility to get a look in. It is one of those beautiful cold days where the sun is shining, but you're still wrapped up in jeans and boots and fleece and scarf and gloves. The sun is to my right, or rather I am to its left, as I am sure that a magnificent glowing entity such as itself would be a little annoyed to find that some small town witch half way up a hill in her jeans and boots has just declared herself the centre of the universe, despite all evidence to the contrary.
So then in order not to irritate any other great celestial beings, I shall tell you now that I am to the right of the moon; a pale silver-white blueberry cookie dipped into a brightening mug of cornflower blue. When she stays around like this in the mornings, she reminds me of many happy days. Early mornings leaving for the bus stop, waving to mother moon over my head, while her earth-bound associate holds my hand in the palm of her blue woollen glove, and I stuff my remaining fingers into the gritty pocket of my red school blazer. This grey-headed observer watched me pick my way from grandmother's house; though no wolf or woodcutter played a part in this tale, as I trotted to a park fit for a fairytale, resplendent in its green acreage with gates and castle, topped with early rising flocks of hot air balloons.
When we need her, our pearlescent matriarch lingers at the school gates of dawn, as cautious and proud as any parent, to ensure that her brood has found its way securely to cloakroom and desk.
Despite my increasing age, she is watching today with mother's intuition that her presence is needed. Perhaps indeed it is the advancing years that have spurred her attentiveness, for today, like none that I can recall, she anxiously hovers a long time after registration bell has sounded, not caring who sees her at morning recess, still pacing beyond the railings.
She watches me all day. Beyond the pale blue dawn and my journey uphill. When the midday sun burns bright and from my tower-top vantage I drink in the clear and refreshing waters of the view surrounding me, mater moonbeam still wrings her cratered hands for me. When I next see her, she is wearing her skirts of deepest inky black, eyes shining with a bone-white pride.
Her luminescence assures me a safe passage home. She curves a protective arm about me and ushers me onward. I return home, my bones aching from the days exertions. As I unlock the door, she sneaks from view, abashed at the discovery of her motherly vigil. As mothers often will, she sneaks into my room when I am in bed, and caresses my face with her ivory fingers, and remains with me as beamed light dancing across my pillow, when I am asleep.