Category: Nursing homes 💚

Dreoilín, dreoilín, rí na n-éan,
is mór and cuid, is beag tú féin,
éirí suas, a bhean an tí,
is tabhair dom pingin,
chun é a chur ina luí.

From “Being a Poet” by Colette Nic Aodha

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By ferry on a soft foil sea,
we crossed water
together and laughed

From “Epithalamium” by Eva Isherwood-Wallace

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MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

From “Easter 1916” by W.B. Yeats

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Yet always in the pantry of preserves
jam-jars of jewel light keeping innermost
lemons, littlenecks, beetroot, quince

From “Deep-Sworn” by Alice Lyons

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If you can’t count your onions, what can you count
my grandfather used to say. He said a lot of things.
Among the other miners he was legendary:
when no more than the thought of the pink crumple
of his infant daughter’s body came to mind
a glow would swell in the pit, the men
would mayhem bauxite by the light
his tenderness emitted.

From “The Curfew” by Stephen Sexton

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Because cabbage-white butterflies in the buttercups and
sea salted caramels never failed to gladden me.

From “Why I Stayed” by Traci Brimhall

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lilac tames the sun-flamed roses
tucks in their blowsy ripeness
dusk brings peace to colours warring
in the flower beds

From “A Promise Made” by Sighle Meehan

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Whole fields have surrendered – the night
lifts its hood over them, calms them, sings a hymn
of warm silence to lull the grass to sleep.
A small wind brushes past my leg,
somewhere a bird settles in a hedgerow
or rests its full breast in the stubble of the corn.

From “Connemara” by Seán Hewitt

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I was just getting down to work,
turning scraws over with a spade,
when I came on them, snug as landmines: bulbs
he’d planted years before, still waiting there

From “Bulbs” by Patrick Moran

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At the grey round of the hill
Music of a lost kingdom
Runs, runs and is suddenly still.
The winds out of Clare-Galway
Carry it: suddenly it is still.

From “The Musicians” by W.B. Yeats

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These roads breathe the curve of slopes
rise and fall running through valleys
open to the moon, where scattered houses glow,
sky and land are tarnished reflections of each other,
dark, silver scrubbed. Headlights flash,
then dim, another car zooms by.

From “Sally Gap” by Eoin Rogers

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Though our provisions will not last long
And who knows what weather front approaches,
Are these waves not beautiful,
This sky?

From “Horizons” by Simon Ó Faoláin

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