(a poem about my return to my adoptive home of Ireland)
There is of course no Irish sun.
That sometimes rare yellow ball
Knows no name for any lands
Where its rays warm and bounce.
And yet there is an Irish sun.
You feel it in the gardens;
So lush, so fresh with rain rinsed leaves.
I feel it touch my face with a gentle golden hand,
A caress and not a burn.
There is of course no Irish moon.
We stare at that white, round face
While it looks past,
Considering the meaning of a distant star.
And yet there is an Irish moon.
I heard the moon that night on my return;
As it voiced a magic spell.
It waved shining scarves of dainty snow,
The moon that called me home.