–for John Cronican
Where have you gone, old Irish light?
Rouse yourself from your sleeping,
the wolves in the hills are howling out,
the poor children are a'weeping.
Open your eyes, old Irish salt,
the fences all need mending.
From fire and foe, this land throughout
we've trusted to your gentle tending.
Why comes the honor guard for him?
Why cry you, lad and lady?
Alas! The old Irish light is gone out,
his salt is returned to the sea.
YOU ARE READING
Transmissions to the Mystic Nebula
PoetryIn the not-to-distant future, a cyber-poet seeking to find his place in the universe initiates several unauthorized communications to a mysterious cosmic phenomenon. Want your own copy? Transmissions is now available on Amazon: https://tinyurl.com/2...
