A request to Brigid


Dig through the piled grey clouds,

and shed gold where lies soot-dark shade,

dig deep where roots tangle and a world squirms,

flinching from the light.

Blow through supple apple boughs

with the gusting breath of a spring gale,

and coax with zephyr fingers

the white, pink-blushed blossom

of the apple trees.


Last day of summer

Last day of summer

I walk


to the quiet wild places

where even the fly tippers don’t go

to breathe in the last of the summer air

to watch the crimson vines climbing through the tired green

and clouds ripple in white shoals

across the vast ocean of the sky.

To listen to the songbirds sing one last song

before they gather up the glowing embers of summer fire

to warm them on their journey south

through the cold high air.

West wind gusts warm through turning leaves

that tremble and cling unaware their day is done

and whispers in autumn’s hesitant voice

a warning from the icefields of the north

“Après moi, le déluge.”