The new moon never came but my grandfather
Said he knew where to find an old one
Having attended the funeral as a boy.
The moon woke with a shudder, shouting
“Flee! The Turks are at the gates of Vienna!”
It took us hours and two bottles of benedictine
To calm him down and make him listen to us
Even then he would occasionally shake his head
And mutter dire warnings; “Birnam Wood
Is on the move! Martians approach Paramus!
Starlings and elms conspire against you!”
He was dubious but agreed to try.
He was too old to just lift over the horizon
So climbed the tallest tree we could find
And then kept climbing until he stopped,
One hand resting on a pale star,
And leaned back, an uncertain crescent
Just enough to see our way home.