rain strokes the earth, greening
leaves and grass, the porter
scent of turf smoke fills the hills
and, in the river, water chuckles
at a joke, a limerick or the jaunty song
a musician whistles on the long
road home from a late night session
and whispers in the rover’s ear:
go n-éirí an bóthar leat.
Kim M. Russell, 2018
It’s St Patrick’s Day and Brendan has reminded us of how St Patrick allegedly banished snakes from Ireland. He wants us to pluck three leaves from the shamrock and see if there’s a magic fourth leaf. My poem may be brief, but I hope to have caught the essence of the place where I once lived.