The Gloaming
The day runs down like children down a hill
among the greening meadows. Irish ancestors call to me
through mighty stands of Hawthorne; luscious laughter
brought on by ancient stories told as
smooth pebbles in a well-worn shoe.
Carlow wishes all a pleasant sleep until the morrow.
Close your eyes to the majestic permanence of Kelly green
to dream of family spectors brought down by unrequited love.
Hold close my heart, or it will break in pieces
as sirens whisper pleas in coming darkness,
bewitched at twilight by the blood within.
© 2018 Catherine Woods
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