Autumn Loaf

Autumn Loaf

 

A plastic bottle and a well-licked
tuna fish can, both flashing topless
in shadows that strobe the gutter
on the street below my balcony.
Between them, misplaced,
A leaf.
My shirt sticks to my back like cling-film
on well-kneaded, well-risen dough;
a languid simile,
but it’s far too humid for cool metaphor
in the suburbs of Santo Domingo
this mid-September.
Even the simile doesn’t cut
—tap-tap,
hear that hollow sound?
Means I’m done.

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Celtic Wind

Celtic Wind

When autumn’s fickle whims prevail
Those mistral airs to blast,
And heaving ship trims brimming sail
To groans of tortured mast;

Then to our shores those Celtic Winds
Shall blow o’er churning seas,
And sweep the shifting dunes to sing
A-howling through the leas;

To swoon the shedding trees that dance
And woo the battered shore,
Where grasses bend in humble stance
And bow their heads in awe;

White plumes of clashing wave-crest spray
Explode from foaming crowns,
Their kelpish brine born ‘cross the bay
To rain o’er coastal towns;

And o’ to drink that Irish air
Infused with shamrock spice,
Imbued the vein the heart to stir
The eye to brim with life;

So we shall savor his sojourn
In our transfigured land,
Until the sceptre be returned
To cold and staying hands;

For soon the breath of Emerald Isle
Will silence and be still,
Upon return from exile of
The king of winter’s chill;

And then amid the silence kissed
By sombre winter freeze,
We’ll reminisce through icy mist
your noble Irish breeze.