Moon Dreaming In the mountains where the Otways run into the ocean at Apollo Bay, the big blackwoods pull the fog down around their shoulders. They arrange the mist as if it were a white woolly crocheted shawl. I am planting trees slowly on the steep slope. My daughter drops off the pills that kept her asleep for a year. We hibernated beneath the cold ice of consciousness. How have I been driven from the company of beautiful women? I take lungfuls of eucalypt oxygen infusing my heaving frame with a fecund blue perfume. Late at night after work I…