The Path of Oughterard

Winding path it was,
in between the wind and the cold sun.
And the bloom of the cotton clouds,
made a resting shade in fast rhyme and run.

And there was the lovely whistle,
over the meadows it hovered, so green.
When in the while it softly tickled,
the lonely trees in a static scene.

Narrow and long path it was,
to infinity it roams by its lines.
Tiresome, yet a peaceful venture,
just how my life was not, amid the lives.

___

*abcb.