Inky, Blinky, Pinky and Clyde

They whisp, spectres taken form.
Almost seen, they mask themselves
in cloaks and march through a
maze, constrained and floating.

The moon is what they are after.
She’s yellow, they know,
and round, full.

She’s tangible substance
while they float,
she strides,
while they are ever-hungry,
she eats.

Life, life they whisper in cracked
wind voices.

If they meet her, they will live.

Three persevere though one
cannot face the light,
and hides in a dark corner
dreaming of the moon.

The others chase,
sometimes catch!

– but she, intangible,
disappears.

This one is for all you Pacman fans!

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