Land Of My Fathers
A Poem
THE LARK
A Poem
A collection of borrowed faces stand silently,
reflecting each other in a tranquil lane.
Upon my arrival, audacious glances
flaunt their nonchalance,
strutting without a care.
The soft percussive rain
adds its rhythmic enchantment.
In the bosom of Dublin,
encased ancestors
patiently await the curious observer.
Echoes of a bygone dance resonate
in brass percussion and tin ensembles.
Silent witnesses to forgotten tales,
a collection of worn stones sits patiently,
like relics of a time long past.
Unperturbed, I welcome the thunderstorm,
the lone dancer has come home.