I'm all too conscious of the change,
nothing strange, and nothing never felt before
not a shock,
perhaps the clicking of a lock
the subtle closing of a door,
a key has turned,
that well worn latch is dropped once more,
on what is done, a green and fertile time,
I hear the chimes,
which ring and sing a tune I know full well,
a tolling bell
for autumn

The artistic mind, a fragile fickle beast
one is never sure of its morning temper,
sometimes savage, full of ire and broken glass
spitting **** and vinegar at all who pass
in a world which cannot understand,
the sheer fustration of creation,
at others more content to let things sit a while,
to smile and wait for the muse to rise
it is forever fearful, of losing any inspiration it has gained
worrying it may be forever chained
never allowed to roam,
hoping that it might return
not to spurn the feelings we lay bare
but to give us hope
and then to help us cope
with whatever wild and brooding notion we have hiding there

A flower in the wind, has no control,
an arbitrary victim
without determined vision as it blows from side to side,
it has no views about the matter
when it sees its beauty shattered
into petals that are scattered far and wide

Rich or poor,
gay, straight, bi
black, white, brown
we are all going to die,
death is a person we cannot elude
from the day we arrive
we are already *******
by the man with the cowl
a non-partisan dude

Do I yearn for you,
not much,
I miss the lightness of your touch
the warmth of hands that held my own,
memory tells me I am not alone
yet you are gone,
the heart I used to hold
a wounded bird which faded into air,
yes I miss you sometimes,
but only when you are not there

Up before the birds,
before the sheep
and the barking farm dogs have had a chance to rise,
before the sun in a waking sky has washed her face
there is me, and the rabbits of course,
there are always nibbling rabbits
they pay me no heed as I ignore them,
cobwebby air that smells of wet stone walls and hazelenuts
a damp little mourning for summer
still with us, but only just
she is fading, her breath grown stale
what was once a fine full featured woman of elegant proportions
is not the girl she was and somewhat over-ripe,
shriveled hag or blousy old ****, who knows,
september will see to that
he could be kind and let her keep her looks for a bit,
a single singing sheep, baas contralto through the fence
followed by her sisters, one of whom is definitely flat,
which stirs the dogs,
then birds, and a raven’s mocking call from the trees
coughing tractors vape their owners into life
and the radio clicks,
because apparently the old ***** won’t start!
a jostling theatre crowd of noise and neighbours
Mrs O’Malley from the farm up the road
is out for her power walk with Dan,
she waves at the gate
Dan wags his tail and eyes my biscuit,
tough luck Dan, she is watching,
I have not come to the world
the world has come to me
all along the valley they are waking now
a glorious cacophany
the Cavershiveen volcano rumbles into being
except for him indoors, he’s still snoring like a bull
in a minute I will take him tea and biscuits
wake him gently from his beige accountant dreams
whatever they are?
and we can start the day together
except of course mine started long ago
with only the silent sky and the hills for company
he will never know that I embraced the dawn
and sipped my coffee with the old gods
Lugh and Dagda and Brigid
I have been their respectful guest
ancient Irish faces he will never know
unless I choose to tell him so

Our connection,
is a pale moon above
and stars that shine
they are yours as they are also mine,
we feel the grey of falling rain
the warmth of joy
and the chill of pain,
we live we love, we laugh and we die
with the same yellow sun
and the same blue sky