When you appear twice in one month, they call you Blue, Blue
Moon and then you have no other names. And every sad song
that ever was sung, every cheap sad song makes those who
hear it remember every cheap sad thing that happened in that
sad, sad month, and it’s all they can do to leave the pub while
they can still see to cross the road.
A mouth has grown in the back of my head, Blue Moon. It
speaks to me. It says I must lay, face down, in the back yard,
after dark – not worrying what the neighbours think, and wait
‘til those hard little eyes form that can look up at you without
cloud cover to protect them.
Anna Robinson, The Finders of London (London: Enitharmon Press, 2010), 47.