Startled by Maples every Fall,
With senses stripped I tumble naked,
Unaware of tears in things,
Into a Celtic twilight of goddesses and ancient kings.

Amber, crimson, golden leaflets flutter ‘round,
High cries of migrant geese their only sound.
Smokey fragrance bears me down through
Tribal memories bred by Gaelic Sires and Dams
Wed now forever in their leaf-strewn autumn beds.

I taste my sweetened heritage
As Yeats and Lampman pour into my mind
And Beechwood’s sacred forests fill
With passing ancient spirits and
Beautiful Lofty Things of every graceful kind.

©Mike Heenan, Beechwood, 2006