The movie ends, it’s 11pm, and I wander through the house switching off lights and kissing sleeping children before I go to bed. My bare feet chill to ice as I walk across the laundry tiles to feed the cat.
I glance out the window. Clouds of mist fill the voids between the hills. Strange to be able to see so far at night. The full moon casts a glow over the farm, like a magical spectre. The bed of agapanthus outside the back door glistens, as if enchanted by the moonlight. The silver glow makes the night visible, throwing the shadows into light, as if I’m wearing magical x-ray specs and I can see through the darkness for the first time.
My eyes tell me it’s morning, in the minutes before dawn, but the thick silence of the house tells me that we are in the midst of nighttime. No rooster crows from the henhouse. No dog snuffles in its kennel readying itself for breakfast, and no children murmur in their beds poised to wake us at the first sight of dawn. My world is sleeping, but the full moon, the supermoon, has pulled away the shroud of nighttime blindness to show me what the world looks like when no one else is watching.