Laughs and Lobotomies

There is warmth in an Irish home, though it can sometimes be hard to find.

Like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow

Or seeing a fairy’s trick out of the corner of the eye, after a long day building roads to nowhere, and a rumble in the belly.

The hilly landscape might once have been flat, though green it still be.  Brothers and sisters beneath now rest, soundly sleeping.

Table cleared after a long day’s wake, readying tomorrow’s fresh mound.

We remember.

We keep the candles lit.

We keep the kettle on.

Though life be harsh and death be swift, you will find warmth.

If you knock on the door. 

We will offer our tea, brewed black as night.

With heaps of sugar, and milk.

And a biscuit or two if we have it.

And we will sit in our sorrows if we can’t speak them.

Or we will lend a hand to fight them.

We have warmth left in us. 

We are battle-hardened and weary.

A millennium lost.

But though we cannot speak of the pain, there is love here, and luck, and remembrance for the lost.

I wish I could love you as you need to be loved but some days are days for fighting and some days are days for peace.  One day we will find it.