On a Dismal Nnight, In Dim Light
Pondering a Dismal Map of Ireland

How can a bird be born alone in a gray ocean
unless by some form of miracle?
How can such a feisty bird be born
and then fly forever
on impossible wings all aflap,
desperation and glee in equal measure
stirred and whirred with feathers of the struggle
plying that gray-churning sea?

For all of those who see the map of Ireland
as that facing-away baby
your teachers told you to be looking for,
look again
until all at once you see
that plump and jaunty bird
facing into the fray
and about to make a bit of
playful trouble,
a peck or a nibble
on the blossom-tip of Scotland,
just for the fun of it,
because Scotland would do the same
if it could and not be caught,
both of them by ancient instinct
ignoring England.

The eye of the bird of course is Lough Neagh;
the beak is Belfast;
the hearted breast is Dublin;
its grasping feet are Wexford;
spine of Roscommon, Galway and Clare,
waist of Limerick, Kilkenny, Tipperary
its proud and strutting bottom of course, is Cork,
with flapping wings of Connemara and Mayo
and crest of Donegal,
thick neck of Sligo
and tail-feather flutter over-the-fence-last
of Kerry and Beara,
of Bantry and Mizen Head.
Fly forever, sweet ghost-bird of Ireland.
Carry all the ancestors along.
I feel the whoosh of wind your wings make,
as you suspend beyond the troubles.
Fly against the odds
until all the storms have cleared.