Short Emigrants Poems

The color of its wing is the sign
of freedom. Flew in the paradise
with other emigrants, in my long
reflection the wild pretty swan.
It was a captive for the bad hunters.
Its wing was bloody, it hurt by an
arrow, the sad broken wing. Groaning
of the pain, it fell in a vast lake. It
rained intensely. The tears of the sad
sky kissed its bloody sore. The swan
is in fact the nice country of pride.
I dream its flight again in the sky....

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Winter brims
over bouldered ground
above Rostrevor.
Louring skies meld
blue lough to green forest.
Needling wind keens
through raftered bones,
once homes,
hewn from ancient granite.

Mourne claims her own,
over and over,
defeating generations.
Hasp and staple,
galvanised against the sleekit mist,
defend rude-lintelled doors.

Who comes?
Only ghosts of emigrants,
wraiths of mountainy men
whose quick selves
coaxed poor life
from pale, barren hills
above Rostrevor....

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