:

He was bright as a may tree
until a branch snapped. I watched
him stumble down a dark drive,
using the moon as a torch --
when it died on him

clouds pressed his brain
into his throat. There’s nothing
strange about talking to an owl
when you’re not full in your head
or to wonder if the world

is round; but he’s on the mend
by he looks of things: walking
in the grounds, unsupervised,
not stopping for a chat
with the Indian

mynah. But it’ll be a long drag
back to the highway, even though
the sun will light his path; it's
the extra load he'll carry
that'll slow him.