Lost Ireland

The first swallow of Wine could bring such memory, its tangy bittersweet fruity flavour, it is its voice, soul, like the fragrance of turf, old, earthy and young. So true and fast i was in my childs eyes again, in an Ireland whose tears awnsers back my own, and that of my father and his kin, and many to oblivian.

In their mouths u can hear and taste the smooth wet slice of the blade apoun the moist ripened turf, a slow rythem and a earthy orchestral movement composed by God, nurtured by mother nature. A being who remains unseen but she who shares lamentation weeping from the arms of ancient oak to mellow beech, their tears and ours, from laughter so untouched that fell opoun the earth so young it gave spirit, life and love to, now amputated and consumed by the captains of industry, the old oak arms that begged for the rising sun that may rise, blinding, whose warm feminine carressing huddling embrace made life a promise we all may see sweetened, but old oak, her arms that once so free, now carry the feet of the capitalists and clowns of a circus ring economy.And fields, lush, knee high, earth and mushrooms i fell over as a child, the warmth of a log fire holds such memory.

Lost Ireland

johnnyknocks

Kilmallock, Ireland

  • Artist
    Notes

Artist's Description

A poem about the Ireland of yesteryear that is fading to our grandparents.

desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

10% off

for joining the Redbubble mailing list

Receive exclusive deals and awesome artist news and content right to your inbox. Free for your convenience.