Ireland The Green Isle. Poem by Michael Cochrane

Land of heather and where mountains meet the sea.
The wind blows the hawthorn trees, as they hang over old graveyard stones names weathered by moss and lichen.
Poets have written of your beauty and the struggles of the past.
A curlew sings as twilight comes and the light fades. Out comes the fiddle, as the stormy sea brings the lashing relentless beating rain against the window panes.
The ladies with headscarves spinning the floor to the reels.
Laughter as warm as the peat fire.
The kettle sings and tea is served with love!
Michael Cochrane ©️ 2026