I am not Irish, but the fair island calls me back:
distant, furry, moving white dots on the sloping bed of green.
small empty roads luring me onward, inwards, towards
playful dogs hiding, pouncing and giving chase;
Mrs. Kennedy’s motherly tone,
forcing more eggs on me in the morning;
Sharing lamb stew with a proud octogenarian for lunch
who, in emphatic Irish, was passionately explaining hurling;
the sweet wailing of the violin, in the smoky pub at night,
where half-pint of Guiness was an order worthy of hearty ribbing,
and an enchanting red-head, with her lingering eyes
easily stole my heart;
the tangible sense of a soulful presence,
of the foreboding castle-ruin
watching me from a distance,
amidst the scented mist and the deep forest;
the strange realization,
that small fairytale creatures do actually exist
around the bend and in the shrubs, watching me
Napping atop a hill, underneath a handsome tree
near the furry, moving white dots on the sloping bed of green.
I am not Irish, but I hear her calling.