√

When the dark cow
leaves the moor, we
will, by then, be √egan.

Pastures green invite
their weeds, games
once more, to play again.

We'll hear no more the
embittered cries, echoing
skies of inhuman slain.

Nor voices of the head -
- less fowl, nor fish in
shoals that gasp in pain.


Ryan O'Leary
Poet Author √egan