Glendalough Poem by Rod M.Peters

Before it was evident
That before too long
You would leave these rugged shores
And head for the twilight country
Where all our dreams are grown
From delicate saplings
In quaint Victorian nurseries
Of wrought iron and glass,
We whiled away the fleeting hours
Of one last afternoon in late Spring
Drinking all our wine
Singing all our songs
Telling all our dreams
Till the dying embers of the last bonfire
We would ever light in a forest clearing
This side of the last rampart
Should cast their dying glow
Beneath a layer of warm ashes.

Little did I know then
That within a few short weeks
I'd see you shrink to a withering twig
While you lay in your bed,
A host of angry blankets
Threatening to drown you.

Now I'm sure you sit leisurely
On a pile of ancient stones,
(The hungry hounds of Time no longer
Snapping at your heels)
Watching the sun go down
Over the soft hills of Glendalough,
Your beloved Glendalough, yes,
But now a finer, weightless,
Always spring-like Glendalough,
Which, like a Christmas decoration,
Lies suspended by a silver thread
From the tip of the horn
Of an ageless moon.