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.
ecophilosopher 