His Irish Rose
Quills made of clouds 'pon shamrock tides
scribing gulls crying over Boru's throne
from peat moss eye and crumbling stone
the gales preserve his verse for all time.
To heaven he gifted wee emerald gems
from shimmering seas and salted glens
the icy fiords and rouge cheeked hens
fiery sirens guard lost treasure chests.
Young scribes arrive to scumble his sky
toting plastic lines and souls of stone
spitting ice into the old scribe's bones
they've no heart for his ancient rhymes.
His soul lay on the tip of broken quills
a cracked ink well betrays a noble will
he lived for all the things that living kills...
an Irish rose -beneath a stone on starry hill.
6/20/20
Copyright © Anthony Biaanco | Year Posted 2020
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