My crunching across this frozen field
wakes sleeping sheep, due to lamb.
The nearby turlough ripples brush across
Moon’s fragmented image,
a lone swan pirouettes–
half a Claddagh Ring.

I welcome the fog
though it snuffs out the moon.
It is still so bright.
No sign of any lamb.

Days later I walk the same field
with a squelch. Incessant rain
has drowned the moon.
Still no lamb.
My watch flashes:
midnight.

They say Algebra moved to
Algeria, not Nigeria where a
0.0% Genius with a flat head
learned to play a Jews Harp
at an Al Anon meeting after
coming back from Alicante,
& Algorithmick although Irish
and not an alcoholic said he
thought it sounded similar to
Turlough O’Carolin’s concerto.