We lost another from our ancient tribe
wind whipped across our cherub faces
we were angels because we cared for them
we did not cannibalize those with souls
Celtic pleats were ironed at the brim
we pranced beaten paths near rivers
embraced behind cold twisted brambles
loved the early lambs that were slain
Chills of the Blarney beat my breast
the saint who gave me life will leave
in primordial tenderness I weave tales
of dark-haired women near Derry Down
Strange and ancient cabalic sounds
float rhythmically over hill and dale
Emerald Isle shines and sparkles
forever as their women bear seeds
2000 by diana moreton.
(written for my mother, Joan, who suffers
from Alzheimer's now,
after a life time of meat and dairy)
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