Imelda O'Reilly

Nature is Turning

The still sleeping town hushes, as the heron slips slides through the open sky, rumor shakes the owl as drought hides in the hay, but the rain above in the clouds watching over the cows, sheep and creatures of the earth fall prey

to destruction of nature’s harsh ways, as I rise to meet the road before me the day bathes in luminous light whittling through the tree branches draped across the lines of air and space breathing mystery in time, my whistling mind looks up far and high as the high tide folds into the night across the border

to see my grandfather’s shadow open and close this town’s face, with the wheels of his bicycle going round and round the mulberry bush, to the chapel at Suncroft or the races on the Curragh or to buy cigars in Brownstown at Lyla Doyle’s. In fondness he chases the brilliant breeze one pedal at a time, over and over as the morning song sings to the

climate dong, as I listen to the frosty ice frozen across the summer’s song, before our climate is dwindled or swayed away, I cross the Japanese bridge on the edge of two towns, and the thatch cottage borders the wide wide plain to the misty morning rain, as the puddles loom round standing
still upon the ground.

All the secrets hiding tucked beneath a hedge inside the horse’s ear, deep in treasure their eyes fly smiles that sway and dream -- a well for SUM… as the distant moon turns the day streaming the night light wonderous round as apples, white berries, blackcurrants, as the thistle’s sway rounder the creaky open iron gate, the corner of the world that leads to where…

As the baby calf leads the legends of time crosses, bewildered, and bereft it’s her calf’s earth in the middle of her eye, is the sigh of the burned human cheeks who ignore the beauty’s snore blind and blistered to the roaring roar of nature’s sigh creaking forth in the floors of the mind’s TIDE eye

This pathway, back road and river to the sea line where the lone fisherman leaves the weary town as nature drowns in dread, as I marvel the reflection of the day as the calf turns away, the voice of my grandfather whispers through the leafless tree I stood at noon reflecting the day I rode on the double decker bus my communion bag in hand at the wonder of the sun and sky high a girl of seven turning the mulberry bush round, may my mulberry song swoon a road in a hundred fold for now nature is turning.