Monday, 19 October 2009

October is Golden

I used to drink a white wine once called Golden Oktober and it was my favourite tipple. A refreshing, pleasant little wine to sip away at on Saturday afternoons, to tease away time. Taken with a few light sandwiches or may be fruit pie.

I think that it was the name that attracted me far more than its quality which was hardly superior!


October is Golden! It is the last month of ancient Summertime, until some fool introduced the term Autumn. Only three seasons in the year then, Winter, Spring & Summer and I think it would be far more practical to revert back to that. There are still crops in the fields and fruit on the trees, the produce therefore declares that it is still summer.




October is golden


How near to me


the blemished leaves


That cling dearly to the branch


soon to fade


crumble and die.


Will I like them


Like you


Run before the great wind


across the cosmic grass


To gather


in a place called Late Summer.



Taking advantage of the few remaining summery days, we arose early to skip breakfast, that is apart from a strong cup of coffee. Which one of my friends calls 'brain food' , bless her for her wit and understanding of what is an important morning ritual that kick starts the day for so many of us.


We set off driving through a light fog that thankfully, was being rapidly burnt off by the warm sun. To the West coast, crossing the River Shannon at Portumna to stop in the Forest Park and give the dog some necessary exercise. Before continuing onwards to our shoreside destination, a beach renown for holey stones and luminescent mother of pearl shells that now grace our bathroom.


It was dog's first siting of the sea, enjoying a romp on the beach, the gently lapping waters of Galway Bay held no attraction to him, he was only enticed into the sea to stand in water three inches deep. By a whistled command from herself, who stood ankle deep in the cool waters.


A boreen leads away up from the beach, at the end stands a beautiful ruin. An old stone farmhouse, the sight of which enticed me with camera in hand to record it's remaining features. For through a glass less window I saw: a cut stone, hand tooled fire place, this was surely then a home that was loved and built by proud people.

And as I stepped in through the door less doorway into the kitchen, hearing in my mind the strains of a jigs n' reels and of dancing feet tapping rhythmically on the floor.

Today alas its the combined music of Atlantic winds and bird song that graces this home, where humans live no more.





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