copyright 1997 Mary Bertke
started with chocolate, and then with the hills,
mind speeding back to the pub, giving chills.
good times and laughter re-conquered my brain,
can talk to my friends, but it isnít the same.
For a fleeting wisp of the Donegal air,
or the scent of the peat-bogs, or the dancing in Clare,
and Iím stolen away to a far-distant clime,
wishing myself back in place and in time,
and I wonder if others who lived there before
find themselves lost on American shores.
happy, Iím healthy, Iíve made a new home,
thereís something still urging my passion to roam,
suppose you could say that I mislaid my mind,
I have to return soon, and search till I find.
be sitting and typing or working by rote
the memories rise up and catch in my throat.
I cannot explain to the people around
reason the laughter and tears come unbound.
remember the snow, whipping cream with a fork,
bold drunken scot and Pat Murphy from Cork,
friends and the authors with horses and halls,
the hostel with bikes and red lights on the walls.
was cutting the barmbrack, and finding the ring,
fortuitous strangers who forced me to sing,
tree where I sat as it told me its tale,
old standing stones, and the castle for sale!
know, to go back, I have nothing to gain,
bloodís pounding now in some Irish vein,
I wonder and wait, and remember and sing
the island from which all these memories spring.
thought I met strangers but found friends from home,
to two worlds wherever Iíd roam,
rides and the hikes and the challenges shared,
remember, and wish I were with them back there.