Bitter Rose of Ireland

'Though the harsh wind blew,
and the scorch of the bitter flame,
did consume your young,
You were by chance or sorrow,
strong enough to strive,
through the twisted wreckage of their foolish spite.
Torn and wounded, scorched and bruised,
battered and wretched, yet still you carry on.

Up, up, through the twisted mental chasms of their vulgar minds,
over the platitudes offered from the meek and the ashamed.
Over the blackened crumbling walls,
of that which was once your home,
your treasure, and your love.

Onward you have fought, hidden behind the men of guns,
'till now at last you find the bright summer air.
Air alive with the buzz of ballet dancing damson flies,
pursuing their mindless chaotic flight.

Yet you know ... ah yes you know the secret of their truth,
for they sing in voices little heard,
of the beauty of the morning air upon their wings,
Ah!...to hear their triumphant serenades,
that as if by magic in their vast world,
they meet another of their kind.
Perchance to sing and then to love,
for but a little while.

Their merriment makes your saddened heart sing,
for nothing but the strongest love of life,
and the knowledge that it brings.
Finds within you the eider down of comfort love.
So now you shall bloom and in glory remember,
and forget the past.

Your leaves shall grow and flowers bud,
to call those dancing creatures to your heart,
and give beauty once more,
onto this torn land.

Tom Drain� 2000

"Written for ALL of our mothers "

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Modern Irish Poetry