Smelling the roses

I took the all too rare chance of going for a long walk this evening. It was a beautiful end to the day. The recent dry weather resulted in the cut grass and the light dusting of leaves on the footpaths having a light , dry, almost roasted aroma. The crisp leaves crinkled as they were getting crushed underfoot. The sky was almost clear of clouds. A red hue glowed from underneath the clouds as they reflected the setting sun. It is a sight that never ceases to impress me in it’s majesty. In the east the day old full moon rose silently. It’s bland white contrasting with the intensity of the dying star in the west. Most people walked with their heads bent, looking at the ground, listening to headphones or concentrating on getting the most out of their exercise. There is sadness to this autumn beauty. It will end with the dark cold days of winter. A poem comes to mind. It was written by a prisoner on the night before his execution. Full, and perhaps too full, of melancholy. but then how will we react when faced with our mortality? LOL? I don’t think so.
The poet spent a lot of his time on the west coast of Ireland. Connacht is the name of a province in the west of Ireland.
Anyway here is the poem;

The Wayfarer

The beauty of the world hath made me sad,
This beauty that will pass;
Sometimes my heart hath shaken with great joy
To see a leaping squirrel in a tree
Or a red lady-bird upon a stalk,
Or little rabbits in a field at evening,
Lit by a slanting sun,
Or some green hill where shadows drifted by
Some quiet hill where mountainy man hath sown
And soon would reap; near to the gate of Heaven;
Or children with bare feet upon the sands
Of some ebbed sea, or playing on the streets
Of little towns in Connacht,
Things young and happy.
And then my heart hath told me:
These will pass,
Will pass and change, will die and be no more,
Things bright and green, things young and happy;
And I have gone upon my way
Sorrowful.