This fine piece by an observant man.
Hoar frost, in the morning, on the high ground;
Napoleon’s Nose is looking coked;
on the non neutral streets, lamp posts,
with the Summer’s flags, look bedraggled.
That which was flown in celebratory defiance, is
now surrendered to merciless wind.
Now, looking unflappable, in the normal sense;
they’re shredded and abandoned.
It’s a cold house.
The Normal south westerlies, deflected,
was it the Jet Stream? The Polar Air, blown,
by a lazy wind, cuts through one.
Hoar frost on the high ground,
Slieve Dubh now whitened,
outlining its Famine history,
the Lazy Beds formed in rows,
like a squadron of troops,
on the march; up or down?
There is no York in charge,
there is no one in charge,
not even the lumpers grow there now.
Just the cold, leaving its hoar,
its seasons greeting.
Patrick Joseph Dorrian