The Phases Of The Moon

An old man cocked his car upon a bridge;

He and his friend, their faces to the South

Had trod the uneven road. Their hoots were soiled

Their Connemara cloth worn out of shape;

They had kept a steady pace as though their beds

Despite a dwindling and late-risen moon

Were distant still. An old man cocked his ear.

Aherne. What made that Sound?