The years

The years cascade like the ninety feet dip
From  Gondwana  plateau around  sixty
A steep fall with a few rainbows and froth.

See the moon hung in a branch on a tree
That is a sad moon-face,  pie-face in cloud
That used to jump each time a new wave came.

You are reading from years, with their big holes
Eaten in by silver worms, that eat them
So nice and in such a round perfection.
It is they that have eaten bits off your moon.

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