Connemara, A Fractured Story Poem by Patrick Guest

Connemara has a fractured story to look inside is our glance at glory.
Vast green spaces are so pure our eye's vision of the past is sure.
Cong where Sean and Mary Kate lite up the place Ashford and the Innisfree a glorious space.

Camera in the bag, the bikes were new, traffic was light, the drivers were few.
Panniers attached for unknown roads, of donkeys and horses, there were loads.
Villages, farms and no one around, inns are plentiful, welcomes abound.

Pubs, older than countries, unchanged, still stood, Guinness on tap with dark stools of wood.
Short skirts, lovely legs and a sea of tweed, in a small inside world, walls soaked in mead.
Smiles and kind words that beg for a reply, we all wish to be Irish, it is hard to deny.

The lilt pronounced so delightful to hear, charm and friendliness that we hold so dear.
Each overnight stop a delight to behold, soft beds and a breakfast fit for the bold.
On the road again the magic continues, while routes mostly up, strain the sinews.

Studs so glorious, horses at their fences, their soft brown eyes you felt their senses.
Alert to see if these strangers are kind, so a stroke to their neck, they don't mind.
Bends in the quiet roads bring delight, rewarded by another enthralling sight.

Out on the rocks seen hard by the sea, these are herds of ponies on the edge of free.
Sturdy ponies, unridden and so wild, standing still, their manes and tails defiled.
Resisting the wind that will forever blow, more fervently than their life, which is slow.

The saddest part of what we have seen, that life is not as it has been.
Old ways are dying, not many years to go, some Villages are so quiet the energy so low.
To us who visit it is all seems so quaint, all we see wrong is it needs some paint.

The kids have gone, big city bound, old folks are left, strong bodies not found.
Small plots, broken fences a leaky thatch, a door hanging open it needs a new latch.
It is not everywhere that we see this trend, better views most often just around that bend.

With tweed hat in hand we left this land, we have seen it's beauty, it is so grand.
Bewitched, bewildered by all we had seen, as we look back, was it not just just a dream?