Ireland in the Springtime (repost)

Ireland in the Springtime (repost)

I went to Ireland in the springtime
the sky rinsed pearly gray with rain,
the sweet soil sprouting
tender green buds and shoots,
fern green, forest green, leaf green.

Moss, pine, sage, kelly, willow,
it was all I could see
and all I remember;
nothing after would ever
be as beautiful.

In Dublin, the smell was dark green;
lilacs, wet wool and freshly cut yards
disguised the belch
of smoke and diesel fuel
under layers of smoggy clouds.

Soft green lawns blanketed
St. Stephen's and Trinity 
where honeysuckle, bluebells,
and marigolds blossomed
like fine hand-embroidery on pillowcases.

The road to Galway was fringed
by green meadows sprinkled
with ox-eye daisies and sweet briar,
stone fences, whitewashed cottages
and wobbly new-born lambs.

Fog wispy as faerie music
swirled through the hills and glens;
new leaves unfolded like heirloom lace.
And I loved the people . . .
the poets, artists, storytellers and musicians.

They are the dreamers of dreams
in their hazy green mists
and blurry shadows
who've renewed the earth
with their spirit and passion.


Copyright 2008 Marianne McNamara