Ireland, My Ireland
Like an old florin minted 1950 in Dublin days,
worn smooth by hands that worked the sodden promises of the ages.
The coin, neither a shilling nor ha'pennies worth,
was buried beneath the earthen Celtic name.
Earth, that gave its people a stubborn mind and heart --
to match those ancient, crinkly-leather boots.
Arise one more day to dig
the twin saviors,potatoes and peat.
Speak the sphagnum language of stout and storm,
while the rain lashes the pub's face
whose windows have seen many a famined rebellion.
Show ancestral respects to the
censored stories spoken gravely at that
oaken plank varnished by many a barmaid's towel,
the Guinness of your lives usurped
by the golden days of pre-Occupation.
Nod gently, nobly, at the hushed tones ascribed to
the immigrant-assail. So desperately they of the blighted crop who
vainly escaped the Island in boats that leaked and sank
in the Irish emerald sea....
Sing a soliloquy of the broad Irish sea.
Understand that what it is is more than a toast by the fire.
Your stick chair rocks towards Wales and the cobblestones
underneath clicks affirmation to a distant tock called Time.
You will know no weightier stone more sublime.
Prodigal daughter and son
the moment arrives and you are home again
the shawls and stone fences, the looming hedges...
like a flaxen tapestry that refused to unravel
for you, are wrapped in what you were, are
... and shall become.
Like an old florin minted 1950 in Dublin days,
worn smooth by hands that worked the sodden promises of the ages.
The coin, neither a shilling nor ha'pennies worth,
was buried beneath the earthen Celtic name.
Earth, that gave its people a stubborn mind and heart --
to match those ancient, crinkly-leather boots.
Arise one more day to dig
the twin saviors,potatoes and peat.
Speak the sphagnum language of stout and storm,
while the rain lashes the pub's face
whose windows have seen many a famined rebellion.
Show ancestral respects to the
censored stories spoken gravely at that
oaken plank varnished by many a barmaid's towel,
the Guinness of your lives usurped
by the golden days of pre-Occupation.
Nod gently, nobly, at the hushed tones ascribed to
the immigrant-assail. So desperately they of the blighted crop who
vainly escaped the Island in boats that leaked and sank
in the Irish emerald sea....
Sing a soliloquy of the broad Irish sea.
Understand that what it is is more than a toast by the fire.
Your stick chair rocks towards Wales and the cobblestones
underneath clicks affirmation to a distant tock called Time.
You will know no weightier stone more sublime.
Prodigal daughter and son
the moment arrives and you are home again
the shawls and stone fences, the looming hedges...
like a flaxen tapestry that refused to unravel
for you, are wrapped in what you were, are
... and shall become.
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at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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