My Mother's Ireland

Not that I think of Ireland as a mystical place
of fantastical dreams, dancing in my head
like rainbows and sunbeams.

No not like that at all to be sure, Ireland’s
appeal to me is much more, it’s surreal.

The homeland of my mother her Klan
and Kin, a place she left too young
a shame, a sin.

For her it became a lifetime ago, where
fading memories is all she could know.

That grand Island that she spoke of so well,
seemed to have the power to cast an
unbreakable spell.

It captures ones soul and heart,
till you never want to leave nor part.

I was just a wee when told of all its magic
and charms, fields of clover on endless
rolling hills and farms.

It’s where wild imaginations tell tall tales
of heroic days gone by, with a pint of ale upon
your lips and some whiskey for embellishments,
but never tellin’ lies.

From hard working sea traders, fishermen
and farmers, to castles, tartans and coats
of armor.

With its emerald grass and golden shores,
an enchanting place of ancient lore.

All the men strong, brave and true,
sharp witted ready for a fight, quick
to settle over some good whiskey
or brew.

Fair skinned ladies all beautiful with fiery
red hair, worn with ribbons and bows put
up with the best of care.

A great land flowing with honey and milk,
where all is worn are soft clothes spun of silk.

There is dark rich earth to till and never toil,
food in every pantry, vegetables grown from
your very own soil.

Lamb and beef in the pot,
buttery Colcannon on the stove-top.

A place where family and friends are often found,
their stories, music and laughter always abound.

To her a wondrous place, a far away dream,
part real, part imagination, her homeland was
beyond reproach an untouchable nation.

A nation where wars and conflicts
nary came into play, memories of potato famines
and bloodshed are but the peripheral, merely
on the fray.

No dark scenes of families split and torn asunder,
no tragic times of tyranny where robber baron’s
plunder.

Nor any Irish blood spilled upon Irish streets,
no Irish grieves nor Irish weeps.

No, Just good luck and fortune, rainbows and
pots of gold, the sun shining every mornin’.

Nothing bad thought of or remembered anymore,
only the good and great things, a place to be adored.

She painted her childhood home with enchantment
and appeal, its no wonder to me it is so surreal.

Lastly her Ireland had;
no blood,
no sweat,
no tears,
except when she cried.

How she longed for her homeland,
but alas; never returned afore she died.

Yet the memories and dreams of her long gone
Emerald Isle, did always keep upon her Irish Eyes,
a smile.

That was my Mother’s Ireland