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