Lambs To Market Poem by Francie Lynch

The sheep are shorn,
The lambs have flown,
The rams are caged
The ewes are alone.

The fleece is woven on foreign shores,

Toilets are flushed, and

Sewers are strewn with rebel nails.


Near embers of tri-coloured blazes,

We hear yarns of ancient wages,

Now spinning in their graves.


Our heirs have no airs of their own.

No promises kept for mothers who wept,

There is no wool on the wheel at home.


The keypad is the abattoir,

The counter a barred cage.

John Barry faces East,

The Rebel faces West;

One for reliance,

One for defiance;

We wait in Requiem silence.


The Dailies wrap the Dail

Seeping with lamb's blood.