Slán leat Saoirse (Farewell)

A brisk and blustery morning – the eighth
Of June – I found her standing all alone.
Through softly shut eyes, her forlornness shown;
She stood in silence, a shadowy wraith.

Cautious at first, I approached in good faith
To offer an ear she might wish to loan,
But as I drew near, the dreary wind’s drone
Kept its sole companion remote and safe.

Her dress familiar, I ventured forward
With a strange feeling that something was wrong;
A step beside her, the wind’s howl lowered
So I could hear her faintly whispered song.
Then, to me, my dear Saoirse bent toward:
“Too late to listen, I’m already gone.”