Golden waves rushed on in
upon a rusty Irish sky
as mother sang out across the land,
fading leaves strained on branches.
The swallows said goodbye.
Crunchy red apples, luscious green pears
they’re all reaching their peak.
They plop down with the changing wind
that belts in from the west.
It’s coming, it will be bleak.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.