here, under half-irish stars,
my father’s voice speaks on through mine,
just as his father’s spoke through him;
with drunken vowels that cannot shine.
here, under half-irish stars,
i come to meet my valentine,
with more hope for my drunken whim
than for my son’s words sounding fine.
the sober-moonlit road is grim,
and speaks no words of its decline,
it knows the beauty drinking mars;
that only trees can drink divine.
the sober-moonlit road is grim,
and there’s a figure to combine
the hedgerow with the twilight scars;
turning slowly on the twine.
Sean Godley
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sober-moonlit-road/
