MY IRISH LOVE

MY IRISH LOVE

I sailed to a port near the ancient rock of Hags Head,

Where I met by the rolling billows, you, my lovely lass.

We walked among the shells of the gold, breezy beach,

And we sat beneath the willows, upon a soft, grassy bed.

We roved through splendid bowers as the hours did pass.

Your lips were of the Gallic rose and of the blossoming peach.

I produced from my pocket some old, romantic rhyme,

And read some lines from Yeats as the day began to die.

We beheld purple finches, leaving their nooks to fly

Over white, wandering brooks, in the brisk, Celtic clime.

We waded in the waves and sipped the crested brine.

Then we walked into town, and sat at a mahogany bar,

Of an old, wooden inn, where hidden from every orb and star,

Your wedding ring glowed, gleaming among the flowing wine.

 ~ John Lars Zwerenz