Morning
Outside, autumn turns over
as the beat of a bodhran
Winter’s coming, winter’s coming, winter’s coming
Morning builds. Like a reel,
the first heat arrives, and with it,
leaves fall, dead bees, a cortege.
The slowstep into church is accompanied
by an organist and weeping in the pews.
Later, a feast, a céilidh. Far off, bells toll.
*
Afternoon
Bells peel far away. A feast and céilidh await
like an organist and weeping in the pews.
The dance into church begins.
The cortege is bright as bees.
The bride arrives late. Heat reels
in the end of the day.
Winter’s coming, winter’s coming, winter’s coming
we say, smoking outside. To a bodhran’s beat,
the bride and groom begin their turn.
