Though it crept upon me slowly,
My life fell to a power
That spread like a growing storm,
That grew like a growing flower,
That swelled like a swelling tide,
Which drowned bridegroom and bride,
And the singing in every tower.

Though it crept upon me slowly,
As I looked the other way,
My fears assumed tomorrow
Would know my suffering today:
I wrote a song in a book sadly,
She is that type who reads no books gladly;
Of my saying, she said, “What did you say?”

Though it crept upon me slowly,
Only interested at first,
Now interest turns to desire,
And yet that wasn’t the worst;
When desire to have desire turns
To love, the lover burns
For a fate that will bruise and burst.

Though it crept upon me slowly,
Like dew descending into sleep,
Fast my heart suddenly ran,
Real tears began to weep;
How sad to know what is always known!
Weak in your company, weaker when alone!
None can keep what they wish to keep.

Though it crept upon me slowly,
The end was horrible and fast,
Creeping into the galley
And creeping up the mast;
The ship pulled into the ocean
Slowly and sorrowfully, like the years,
But soon came the waves, and soon came the fears.


1 Comment

  1. Anonymous said,

    March 18, 2013 at 3:43 am

    Happy St. Patrick’s Day!


    I’ve always been proud of my Irish
    for deep within me is the love
    of all things loved by the Irish:
    fine horses and music and poetry,
    pretty girls and a windy sea.
    But I’m no more Irish than you are,
    just a mix of many things…
    Scottish and Dutch and German,
    some Welsh and a little Cherokee.

    My Irish is only an illusion, just a name
    (though perhaps a touch in the soul).
    I’m just an American mongrel
    like the rest of us, like that other illusion,
    that game we play every day
    of who and what we are or want to seem to be
    and all but moral mongrels.

    Copyright 2009 – Tall Grass & High Waves, Gary B. Fitzgerald


    My family’s been gone from Ireland
    for at least two hundred years.
    Many generations in America,
    many pioneers. Many who worked hard
    for every buck. But the only Irish left
    in me is my name and a poem,
    a fear of ghosts
    and some damned sorry luck.

    Copyright 2008 – Softwood: Seventy-eight Poems, Gary B. Fitzgerald

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