Monday, March 2, 2015
The Old Country (St. Patrick's Day)
I dream of the old country,
Not with nostalgia, but in fear of the grip it had on me while I was there;
Always the traveler, always lost-always looking for directions...
I surrendered myself to you and your ways.
And it was always you, not them, not us but you,
Not as a host but as a jailer, holding me against my will,
Drowning in your hospitality and your rain,
Soaked to the bones with your desire,
Tricked again by your magic..
In the half light, under the cracked fanlight and street lamp,
Whipped by the wind and enveloped by the fog,
Is that the sunrise over the hills? Barely discernible like a ghost by the grave,
Or my soul, the departed, faithfully leaving me behind in the dark?
I dream of you now, won't you please let me go..
Loosen your grip, you loveless hag, barren countryside
and naked trees, no love no comfort, no way home.
I dream of the old country, and hope I awake,
I was born far from here, my dreams have been stolen,
The soft rain, thank God, is washing my soul clean,
The clouds form and close in over me,
Free from my memories, I slip quietly away.
The Old Country, no country, no land of mine, no return, no...
© 2015 Dr. Liam Leonard (photo copyright as noted).