The Patriots Poem by Joe Hughes

We make our way
By Anna Liffey,
Out of the city
Towards the zoological gardens,
Past the 1898 disaster burial ground
Before reaching Arbor Hill.
An emerald expanse appears,
Deserted but for a crippled captain
In a wheelchair.
His cap lies upended In his motionless lap.
We chat.
The tricolour blows frantically,
Whipped ragged by their undying spirits
In this clinic of green.
It wasn't clean on their death morning.
Bulleted, ravaged bodies,
Splattered blood and splintered bone
On dirty prison garb.
Distorted bodies, stinking,
Thrown and kicked
Into a corner
By the crumbling cemetery wall.
We kneel on their cold,
Grey, death prison.
The Proclamation wall
Towers over us,
Echoing the roar
Of the Celtic Tiger beyond.