Erin
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!
