A Golden End
Golden waves rushed on in
by Seán O Muiríosa
upon a rusty Irish sky
as mother sang out across the land,
fading leaves strained on branches.
The swallows said goodbye.
Crunchy red apples, luscious green pears
they’re all reaching their peak.
They plop down with the changing wind
that belts in from the west.
It’s coming, it will be bleak.