At the Library, New Ross
From my window desk, perched
high above the grey slated gables
I pause for thought, seeing spires
rising above the town, my view
tumbles towards two great rivers,
joined now as one, gliding gently
I came to write peacefully,
to avoid distractions,
the well-known, oft cursed,
enemy of poets and writers.
Yet how can I ignore young birches
as Autumn colours grace their leaves
while they cradle in their golden grove
an amphitheater crying out for a voice
to proclaim aloud sheer joy that I live
near such a scribbler’s sanctuary?
The trees tremble as a soft breeze
flutters leaves, then wafts me back to
work where the very blood of words,
fresh ink, flows.