Driving left of logic
on that mean, misty roundabout
leftover from the pubs of our roots
four-corpse fried full breakfast to boot.

It’s one regular Celt cult over here
splashed Eire green, beaches of pebbled priorities
ages of breaths taken
then released along the boreen.

Blood relatives rolling chimes off lips
brandished by the paths of armies
and mythologies dispatched
by vigilant moss, cutting sea breezes.

Harbor in tears, crashing waves
judged too soon by Cranberry Druids
land of emigrant departures
Fenian convicts on the Celtic Sea.

Endless red cavalry stopped
in its tracks by angry fir
with only pikes against artillery
potato stars and mad mornings.

And the lough came into the sitting room
for his afternoon tea.

Boatloads of vanquished Blasket Islanders
victims of a fishless ocean
drift toward the rocky An Daingean
refugees from Europe’s most westerly isles.

Paddy’s last name is O’Flaherty
It’s been so and is sure not a rarity
his whiskey pot still
his life a crisp parity.

Where they still speak it
in out of the rain
telling the tale
in careful ancient words.

Filed Under: Hard News


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