That moon again

Tonight the moon is so bright that you can feel your pupils contracting when you look at it. Its reflection on the field magnifies the glow, making you almost screw your face at the brightness. If you stand with your back to it, you can see your shadow cutting a distinct contour on the silver-coated grass. You could read in this light, if the type were large enough.

The Farmer's dogs are barking with unease and midnight is not far off. Perfect setting to conjure up the stories of werewolves used to scare the children into staying still in bed when I was small back in Montero. Except that this is the North Tyne, and Fluffy is sauntering ahead of me, stopping to sniff into every molehill and pouncing heroically on the source of every ruffle in the grass, real or imaginary.

And the house, at other times a forbidding shadow, tonight stands ignited with the glow of this impossibly fiery moon, like cosmic water sent to bathe the two youngsters sleeping inside.

To feel scared would demand more imagination than I can muster right now.