Yes, they are here, the little ones, the lost ones,
the spirits who own this place, beach, sod, and sky.
They are here and sprout in the bleat of every sheep;
they are here in the roar of every angry tide;
they are here, wept full into every pot of
Earl Grey tea served hot, Ah, ’tis grand, it is!
But there is no due for them now, no memory, just facts.
In the end, I suppose, that’s close enough, and if not, well,
that is all that they shall have. I’m sure they’re used to it by now.
In Éirinn is Irish Gaelic for In Ireland. As a Newfoundlander, much of my heritage is Irish and I have always felt a kinship with the land. Visiting Ireland, you cannot help but be struck by its long and tragic history. The real Irish story is not the cute, cleaned up Disney-like one of “Top ‘a tha marnin to ya!” (which by the way, no one Irish ever says); it is a darker narrative of darker themes of loss, love, and cruelty. But who hears their tales now?
Thank you for reading In Éirinn. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed it and humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments.
The photograph was taken on a recent trip to the Aran Island of Inis Mór, off the west coast of Ireland. To see my photography blog, please visit the Book of Bokeh.
j.
Poem, and notes © John Etheridge; all rights reserved. The poem and accompanying notes are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Work 3.0 Unported License. This applies to all original written work found on this site unless noted otherwise. The attribution claimed under the license is © John Etheridge, https://bookofpain.wordpress.com.