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.
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