The Big Fella. Poem by Sandra Kavanagh Josefsson

What a fine day it was,
the day that you were born.
An October day in Woodfield, County Cork,
your creation did adorn.

Poverty was rife,
but that did not stop your strength.
Off to London you went,
and worked your days in a bank in length.

And then came Easter Monday
and you played your part so well.
Ended up in Frongoch prison camp,
but not long there, did you dwell.

On your return to Eire,
you were elected to Government.
Became the Minister of Home Affairs.
Later the role of Finance Minister, you did consent.

But you were surrounded by disloyality.
Those for and against the treaty.
On a sad day in Beal na mBlath,
your end came without dignity.

And now you lie in a cold grave in Glasnevin.
It is a hundred years since your death.
Ever since then you have been praised and hero worshipped.
But it is not worth a cent.

Because today Eire is not a free country.
It is run by corrupt elites.
Everything you did for the Irish struggle,
is done and dusted, its complete.

Until the day that Irish women and Irish men wake up,
to what is really going on.
All the good you did,
its all long gone.

So I will continue to visit your grave,
and place my lonely flower.
And dream of what Eire could be,
Under the rainy showers.

Verse: Sandra Kavanagh (c) .20220821