An Irish song lifted high in the air,
as autumn rain fell on the grasses and plain.
She sat in the chill, in the song, all alone,
for Harry was dead and gone.

The trees without leaves did not mind company;
her voice wove a warmth all around them.
She sang her love's theme to what once had been green-
to Harry, who was dead and gone.

In old Anglesea, on a small strip of land,
she recalled his blue depth and the color of water.
His eyes held a sadness, a mystery, like the sea-
almost a madness, nearly an ecstasy.

She sat in the chill, not minding the lowness
of clouds, whispering o'er her, or grayness that grew
around like a garden, alive in the Autumn,
but Harry was dead, yes Harry was dead
and gone.

(c) Cynthia D'Adamo