George Spaeth

Renvyle Peninsula, Connemara, Ireland, 29 May 1999

Gray the day, but green, oh, green
Yes green so green the hummocked grasses.
Bent by sea-wound,seaweed-scented
Wind, the tufts of iris lean,
Myriad spikes, shimmering masses
Of fragile flowers dying daily;
Nestled in the hilly passes
they greet grayness and live gaily,


Our recollections change. As seen
Through memory’s grayness, times
And time, like ghostly crags of green
Enmisted hills, appear, mimes
Of our desires and hopes and vented
Expectations, central parts
Of who we are. Again, the scented
Winds enliven us like singing larks.


Gray the day. but green our hearts.