Rogue Moon

Dying and difficult old men, the last
Of their century, the war’s age, shake sticks and boast.
They wish to relive the stories their powers made.
They wish to be brave rogue moons again.
They want to be planetary men.

The blue and golden lights of green slopes shade
Valleys that bequeath twilight tunnels of theft
A hundred years; only old men are left.

It has to be the moon. They stand on the moon
To be seen with the eminence of the thing they did,
Sandbag and bunker guarded by the vigilant tongue
Speaking as others, being alien, never could:
Rogue moons of aimed metal from a bruising gun,
Besieged, dying difficult old men.