Who is on the plum tree?
I want to reach across the sky
to mists beyond the blue
to where you are imagined still
and I remember you
Your face was soft, your lilting tongue
a brogue of Burren’s air,
a flute that danced upon the wind
from Erin’s County Clare.
You danced a Hornpipe, kicked your heels,
smiled with not a care ~
With rocking ankle, turn of calf,
And ribbons in your hair.
Wild and exiled, mother mine
you beat the flaggy ground
with rhythm of the rebel coast
battering the sound.
I do miss your bluest eyes
and long for when you were
an orchid in a field of tare ~
the girl from County Clare.
Copyright, poem, Niamh Clune 2013, All rights reserved
Editor’s Note: Yesterday, May 30, was Mothering Sunday in the UK and Niamh’s lovely poem is posted in honor of the day. Best wishes and gratitude to…
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