A Walk Through Erin (Ireland) Poem by Burt Poole

The green of Ireland’s shores, like
the constant kiss of spring,
From Derrybeg to Westport and down
to the Kerry Ring.
What other place you know of can
boast such verdant land;
This place where little shamrocks grow
and fashioned by God’s hand.
Then, here and there we see it, the
yellow gorse and heather,
The larkspur and the summer rose, each
blessed by Erin’s weather.
Now, hear the braying donkeys as they
stand beside the way,
The sheep, the cows, the horses within
stone fences, grey.
Then, see the lush, green valleys, the
mountains, rivers, streams,
The salmon weir and rainbows, which are
brighter than our dreams.
And don’t forget the leprechauns with
their little pipes and hats—
How they stir imaginations, charged by
fuel from the vats.
In the evening there’s the céilί with
Its fiddle, drum, and fife,
And its many laughing couples, full of
blarney, full of life.
Have a drink from “cozied” teapot, eat
some cabbage, fish and chips;
Have some rashers, eggs and soda bread,
and orange squash for your trips.
Now, each town has its turf house; here
some place their bets to win,
Also lovely cemeteries that folks are
dyin’ to get in.
But when one thinks of Ireland, the
things that touch the heart
Are the sights and sounds of people,
warm and friendly from the start.
Yes, old Erin has its problems,
some of which may never end,
But they’ll seem quite small when your
mind recalls this walk with an
Irish friend.