Moon walk

Draw the fucking owl.

I got asked an unusual question down the pub a few weeks ago.

“Do you want to go for a moonwalk?”

This isn’t the kind of offer I usually get down the pub of a Friday evening.

“Sorry, what?” It’s my mate from the pub committee who I’ve mentioned before: musician, carpenter and procurer of hessian sacks.

“Moonwalk. Full moon walk. Light of the moon, stroll in the woods, you know? Bright enough to go without headlamps. You up for it?”

Said in the tone of “come away, o human child”.

Am I up for it? Does the Pope shit in the woods?

Never have I needed a full moon walk more.

Said in the tone of “for the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.”

_

Meet at the pub for a swift sharpener.

That’s the group chat message on the night of the walk. For an instant, images of spiky birds and pencil sharpeners flit in and out of my synapses.

Then I get it. Swift, as in fast. Sharpener, as in beverage to sharpen the occasion of it all.

One of my walking companions has a hip flask of whiskey. I’ve never…