In blazing light it stirred the dew.
A jewel on each leaf of the glade at dawn shook on the frosty greeness.
While no song was heard but the water's plummet from the shining rocks above,
And a bird awakened by the song of a new day.
The shadows began to crawl across the sky,
Punctured here and there by pinholes
Allowing the day above to show through,
Marked by a bell's toll and a cool wind.
When you go to Heaven, Saints and Angels you'll meet
The Pearly Gates'll swing open, and you'll walk the golden street.
But don't look around there for Irish 'cause none to Heaven have come.
See, the Irish don't die
They just putrify
Drinkin' vodka and whiskey and rum.
The rain had stopped, but night had come
The gnarled trees still dripped.
Fog clung to the muddy road, the dark clouds to the sky, and through the damp air between came again the cry.
The low lonely cry from the marsh below, rebounding from the decaying walls of the house now overgrown by time
And carried by the dampness, sounded through the hollow.
But those within answered not, nor was there a sound
Save the cold wind, which brought again the rain.
all poems copyright 1997, Gunnar Carlson, Las Cruces, NM