Echtra Éire

For Lent, I've been writing a poem a day. They aren't that good or thought out; it's more about the consistency and stretching a small, creative muscle. But, since today is St. Patrick's Day, my daily poem took a distinctly Irish tone. 

Echtra Éire

Air plays over Éire,
Err and ire and emerald fire,
Magic mist reveals mythical inhabitants:
A mad king and phantom queen,
A hound from the north,
Warriors and raiders and seafaring shepherds,
Cattle and clans clashing,
The Derry raided, Brigid cries over spilled milk,
Shannon runs, the Cailleach wraps winter round her,
Fairies dance, banshees scream, leprechauns mend their shoes,
Men ride alongside gods in war,
Giants storm the beach,
A slave stands to preach,
Snakes flee at a foreign brogue.
This outpost outlier, saving Christendom
In Colmcille’s convents, on Brendon’s boats.
Land of milk and poteen,
New World roots buried in the ground
Disperse old guard to set down New World roots.
Calamitous colonization,
Famine and emancipation,
Death and humor and oppression and craic.
What nonsense, Joyce, from a landlocked island
A Jung man sitting for portraits
While Finians wake and glare east
Facing the never-setting sun
Breaking the rites of spring:
On the day when His blood shed, peace
On the day of Resurrection, death.
Riddle and rhymes and revival,
Connacht’s love songs and Seamus’ poems,
New identity forged in hidden world, forgotten words:
Erin, go back,
Éire go brách.