The Strawberry Moon
- Sally Somerton
- 4 days ago
- 1 min read
My Poetic Prose for this Full Moon.
By the time the Strawberry Moon arrives, the year has lost its impatience.
Spring has stopped introducing itself.
The hedgerows no longer need applause.
Even the sea, though never still, seems to have settled into its summer breathing.
There is a peculiar sweetness to this moon. Not because it blushes pink, as people imagine, but because it arrives when sweetness itself has ripened.
Berries redden quietly.
Roses abandon restraint.
Bees move with the confidence of creatures who know exactly where they belong.
Perhaps that is the invitation.
Not to become more.
Not to strive harder.
Simply to notice what has already grown.
We spend so much of our lives sowing.
Planting ideas.
Holding families together.
Mending hearts.
Watering dreams that, for months or years, seem determined to remain underground.
Then, almost without fanfare, something appears.
A conversation becomes forgiveness.
A scar becomes a story.
A stranger becomes a friend.
The woman who believed she had lost herself discovers she had merely been buried beneath everyone else’s expectations.
Nothing blooms all at once.
Not strawberries.
Not forests.
Not women.
The Strawberry Moon asks for gratitude before ambition.
Taste before harvest.
Presence before planning.
Tonight, stand barefoot if you can.
Lift your face towards a moon that has watched every version of you; the frightened girl, the capable woman, the weary one, the wild one, and has loved each of them with exactly the same light.
And if you have forgotten how far you’ve travelled, let the berries remind you.
Their sweetness was never rushed.
Sally x
Sally Somerton - Island Writer
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