What makes a veil so fascinating?
Is it the anticipation engendered in the viewer of the uncovering of mysteries? Is it the untutored charm of a baby waiting for the face to appear behind the hands in the game of peekaboo? What gives the hidden a power that trumps that of the seen?
This morning, as I walked towards the last moon of autumn, it wobbled large across the dark blue western sky, dropping behind a thin mantilla of tree lace, further dipping behind the burqa of the balsamic pine.
Now you see it, and now you don't.
Then, up again, brilliant, only to hide again behind a thin layer of cloud.