Rooks shout to one another
From tree to tree breaking the
Quiet of the morning
Morning of resurrection
Resurrection of the dead
Resurrection of dreams
Resurrection of stories
Vague notions
Too big to be encompassed
To be bounded by my little thought.
Guard us.
Lambs drowse in old fields
Blissful in the unseasonable sunlight
Guard them
Bullets fly around old walls
Bleeding Ulster’s ruinous ancient pride
On this holy morning, guard us.
Against manipulations of false patriots
Against subtle lies of false shepherd’
Against persuasion to false choices.
Hurtling through green fields
We took asudden knuckle-whitening
Last second turn in the gravel lot
With picnic tables
Where we ate our salmon and brown bread
Swearing we could forsake all other food
Finding ourselves unaware at Rath Croghan
We climbed Medb’s mound, surveying the
Green plain of Connacht through the mist
Mists of stories, mists of time
Mists concealing walls of stone
Walls of thought, walls of tradition and prejudice.
We marveled at old stories
Lying beneath our feet
Rising with the mist
From dreams to fill the
Waking world with songs
And with tears.
Author: Duncan MacNae
Exiled Gael, scion of the Dust Bowl, dweller within Divine Grace, admirer of mountains, I have made my peace with trout and the starlings. Looking for a river and healing trees.
duncanmacduncan5@gmail.com
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