Like a cricket in tall grass foretelling fall
the alarm chirps staccato:
the harps begin
'good morning', mutters the bird and
Turlough O'Carolan rides bog-side again,
off which fogs in coils rise
veiling a smudge of sun
astride a gray mare who trots on, turns and laughs
'You late, ya' coof. Fo' the feast, ya' coof'.
'Giddy-yap', he snaps, and, 'mind the turf';
'They can wait'- and rides on.
There is nothing to do but rise:
already a dozen to-do's buzz about my ears.
a morning glory flares blue on the air
a heart-shaped leaf peers through the pane-
a moment of utter tranquility, then,
time, it is time, time.
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