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 inkwell 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
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