The time.

 The time 


The time has come to give away

The items hoarded over fifty years

No longer buying or accumulating

But dispensing freely to those who need. 


This change has come a little sudden

But better late than never

And better live than dead

To spare the folk who follow. 


Years roll on and less is needed

Passion’s flame has now subsided

All is well, the earth provided

What we required and much more. 


The Sunday train trundles slowly

Along the quays in Wexford Centre 

Making its way in November shadows

All the way to Connolly Station. 


We proceed at walking pace

And pass onlookers as they stroll

On the quayside quaffing coffee

Babes in arms, mums in scarves. 


A group of ladies board the train

Laughing, chatting from their trip

Past singers from a Dublin choir

Now deepen bonds of friendship. 


The hours pass,  the sullen evening

Surrounds the train while stations 

Empty to fill each seat with tourists

In defiance of the winter rains. 


More trips like this, less trips by car

A smaller carbon footprint now by far

We shall escape November prison 

The track to heaven lies ajar. 





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