’VE cut the corn by the light of the Harvest Moon and I’ve walked around the garden on the scented spring night of the Pink Moon. I’ve watched the fox’s silhouette prowl under the Wolf Moon and too often, under the stark shine of a Cold Moon, I’ve dispensed hay to snow-chested sheep. Once, in the sort of strange synchronicity that happens only once in a Blue Moon, I was driving along in the Land Rover, through a flood, when Creedence Clearwater came on the radio. The river was, as the song had it, ‘over flowin’’.
