Of a Morning in Ireland
[Note: I found this poem while looking back over some old backups of my documents. Always, always, always save backups of your work. You’ll thank yourself later.]
2001; Edited 5-December-2002
Along the lane ran an old toppled wall;
Not two stones stood together but one did fall.
The grass grew high between jumbled piles.
Ants strode through broken arches in long winding files.
And nary a stone upon stone was not broke,
The time, rain, and cold their toll having took.
The lane, too, wore like rags the ravages of time –
Wheel ruts ‘round sinkholes ruined the line.
And puddles like oceans spanned its breadth,
Their still surfaces rippling at the slightest breath.
Above, mottled clouds of gray made the green
Of the earth all the brighter ‘neath dewy sheen.
(The sun was, on this day, as it was on most,
Riding far up beyond the cumulus host.)
And so all stood silent, and still in the morn,
As innocent as the babe on the day it is born.
Away over the hill, and beyond the bend, there
Rode a soft whisper upon voices of air.
Clip-clop, clip-clop, sounds of hooves upon stones;
Bells jingling merrily and the harness’ groan –
A horse with a rider and cart slowly go
Down the dell on the lane, that old country road.
But they do not mar the beauteous scene,
Rather it’s enhanced that it should be seen.