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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 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.