On St. Paddy’s Day
On city streets and hills and village squares
Neighbors celebrate with ethnic pride
Something ancient –– veiled in mist –– with airs
That sound like merry mourning countrywide.
Pipes of clay so white and pints of brew
Abound among the throngs that flood the pubs ––
Declaiming Emerald the sacred hue ––
Decrying England’s cruel historic snubs.
Yet, maudlin sentiment soon drowns the ire.
‘Tis nostalgia that’s the order of the day ––
Sweet dreams of something mythic –– far away ––
Dissolve with drink the potency of fire.
A nation’s wounded pride may fill its heart
Yet give no strength save that which tears apart.
- The Sandpiper - Spring 1997