Do not look for fairies
In these glens.
I have come, far too late, to see the old things,
Even to see my granddad’s birthplace.
“ ’Twas last a stable,” I was told.
But Ireland is changed now,
And I find the old barn that was,
Entombed in concrete, a-flower with geraniums.
Granted, it is warm now, and has electric lights.
Before, I heard the cow’s stench stank
And the damp earth chilled the bones.
But, see the fields he trod, to chase the cows to pasture!
’Tis New Ireland now: a golf course sparkles there.
And all this, all this, is good news to some.
But not to me!
Not to me.
Sheila Flynn DeCosse is a freelance writer who lives in East Hampton. Her work has appeared in Cricket and other children’s publications, and she has had fiction in The East Hampton Star.