From Tullabeg

A stately father looms in my conscience,
As he earnestly toils the stricken land.
It yields at best, a life threatening harvest,
Barely strong enough to eat, lest trawl.

This evil blight casts a long shadow of death.
My pre-existence falters,
As he treads the narrow valley
Between life and death.

Empowered only by his faith,
His weak spirit gently lights up the land.
Spreading hope; and life.

Only the sinewy grass
Offers him a moment of strength.

The sun shines mercilessly on his weary back;
His prayers usher back the poison,
As it recedes toward its earthly core.

A woman beckons; and his pain sets forth.
And from these grass roots,
Generations have spawned.

A prayer of gratitude we owe this great man.
For although his tomb is grassed over,
‘Tis these grasses that rendered us life.

No more empty voices
Shall bellow and beg;
As we recall the grassy sprawl,
Of Tullabeg.


Written January, 1997.

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