Ireland

This is a poem inspired by an Irish cousin of mine who was a bit of a "wild child" in her youth. 

Erin
by Michael R. Burch

All that’s left of Ireland is her hair—
bright carrot—and her milkmaid-pallid skin,
her brilliant air of cavalier despair,
her train of children—some conceived in sin,
the others to avoid it. For nowhere
is evidence of thought. Devout, pale, thin,
gay, nonchalant, all radiance. So fair!

The Celtic Cross at Île Grosse
by Michael R. Burch

“I actually visited the island and walked across those mass graves [of 30,000 Irish men, women and children], and I played a little tune on me whistle. I found it very peaceful, and there was relief there.” – Paddy Maloney of The Chieftains

There was relief there,
and release,
on Île Grosse
in the spreading gorse
and the cry of the wild geese . . .

Time is going quickly..
soon we'll have to part
from families, friends and neighbours
the thought near breaks my heart.

Landing on a foreign soil
English soil at that!
I wonder will it be like home
with a welcome on the mat?

People say, "It will be a change
you'll like it, wait and see,
London is terrific,
that's the place to be.

It will be a change indeed
to live near London town
Fashion! Frenzy! Fighting!
Travel underground!