Lay, beautifully bare, moorlands of Clare
Where, hen harrier, soars, in, sky-dance
Thus begins, Irish autumn’s, ageless affair
With love, pain, longing’s, wild romance!

From a, lost log hut, by the, Lakes of Cavan
Watch swans, make love, thru, blinds of fog
Motley shades, of a, mystic, colors’ caravan
Strewn, all o’er, lush heart, of the bog!

Bright, green leaves rust, to rustle, on the floor
What whisper, birch, elm, oak, sycamore, …
An ode, to Yeats’, unwritten verse
“Why, sweetest is, September’s curse!”

A twilight, chased to, Tory Isle
Where mermaids, bathe in, Northern Lights
A dream, is born, in a, farm, fertile
An Irish Fall, Is A Fest, Of Delights!

© 2022 Vikas Chandra