Clover and moss adornment,
fields of ancient emerald mellow,
with spring lambs innocent,
elderly farmer with a tea stained
smile.

Yet, north of there,
her people warring,
life spills on concrete,
and in the singing wind
is the song of the Troubles.

My maiden, my Eire,
are you ever at rest?
Where are your children?
Sons and daughters,
youth no more to come home,
Scars on a beauty,
she, she, will it go on into eternity?

My beauty, the souls and
shamrocks in the dew,
weep just as much as you.

look outside yourself
for twenty minutes,

breathe in the creation
find some inspiration.

not content to sit idly by
while the world speeds past:

green and grey and beautiful -
sodden with yesterday’s life
dropping off leaves and
into open collars.

leaky futures flood across
the backside of our minds.

cascade -
gently at first:

a trickle, a dribble,
a hand to hold.

lay down those sweaty palms
dry the crease of your smile,
for the world is full of wonder
if you stay for a while.

Éire,
The beauty of a broken land,
Where each and every man
Took up his own fight
And fought it with all his might

The sun sets on Ireland,
patchwork fields illuminated by the august light of
abiding memory.

Misty hues spilling
over the mountains,
glimpsed through a mist of tears
fighting not to be shed.

The last sunset
of a brief glimpse of manic happiness
and friendship
and love.

The fields flash by,
each one transforming into a rose-coloured memory,
and a tsunami of melancholy threatens to
knock me down.

Heavy sighs and
knowing looks and
held-back tears and
one last caress of your sun-kissed skin.

The sun sets on Ireland
And opens into a bright new tomorrow.