IRELAND IN THE SPRINGTIME

IRELAND IN THE SPRINGTIME

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, willow.

So green it filled my eyes  

with thick grassy color,

so green it was all I could see

and all I remember,

so green nothing after could

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, gentian 

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. 

Those dreamers of dreams 

in hazy green mists 

and blurry shadows,

who changed the world 

with their passion.

Copyright 2008 Marianne McNamara