'The lady in her silver shoon.'

Last week I was on a long-distance phone call when the subject of the moon was mentioned by the other party who was, at the time, gazing upon that celestial body and favourably impressed. I looked out of my east-facing upstairs window, and there she was, a whisker off full, and blue, and as wonderful as ever, about forty-five degrees above the horizon (a little hard to judge when the Port Hills make the horizon). But anyway there we were, making a neat triangle with the moon, one August night.