Poem - It’s Autumn Already

It’s autumn already, the wind says.
The golden golds and the swirl of leaves,
a mad wind up rushing up to you
on it’s way to somewhere else.
Imagine living in a series of autumns,
being like a tornado chaser,
running the globe after falling leaves.
Living in that rhythm of life, it full of endings,
like an Ireland far away, 
her easy rain and death in the trees soft moan.
All the while, us, on our hands and knees
in some form of stupor, poverty or obeisance.
What better bitter drama to have on one’s own doorstep,
so far away from the arrogant sterility of London or New York.
Autumn an almost perfect match for the Irish psyche,
the endings, the depression, the dark things unspoken.
Yet around the fire in a pub the craic and the happy smiles,
soup coming in off the range, the place full of mad ones.
All of us gathering in close, 
circling in our own camp of strange uniqueness,
brothers and sisters in that moment, 
blow-ins not understanding any of it,
how a stranger could be a long lost sister
or why just one word could be funny, 
or sad.
The mood rising and falling,
as the wind says.