Yesterday, I went to the moon.
It was suspended over a pond: a portrait of the moon in three dimensions, seven metres across and every centimetre accurate.
The Museum of the Moon is being shown around the world, because the moon has meaning to all peoples, and the artist Luke Jerram hopes that the installation will stimulate the creation of more art everywhere it goes. It’s a beautiful idea, as beautiful as the installation.
I was there because I’m a selenophile - I love the moon. Specifically, I love the moon of imagination.
Looking at the moon, I feel watched over and cared for. I’m never alone when I’m talking to the moon, though it never answers back.
Wherever I am, I can always feel at home by moon-gazing.
Seeing a glory around the moon is proof of just enough magic in this world.
A full moon invites a little extra eccentricity and I’m happy to accept (whatever science has to say on the matter).
The moon is made more lovely by its many names: new and blue, storm and chaste, crow and sugar, egg and hare, blossom and milk, strawberry, rose.
It's light upon the sea is called a moon-glade. That makes me happy.
And thanks to the moon for tides –the freshening breeze, light and shade on sand-ripples which are never the same twice, secret words washed away, treasure-hunting amongst the bladderwrack.
Mr G and I have had many adventures on the moon, composing them together. We travel there, as unlikely as it seems, via Barrow-in-Furness. Others have been pulled by geese, launched by fireworks, traveled by balloon and using magic galoshes. One can makes one's own way.
What is it like there? Exactly as you imagine, assuming you choose to.
You might think it’s all moonshine, and I might be moonstruck, but I'm delighted to be moony.