Th' White, Stone Crosses O' Donnegal
The today's begin- as the yesterday's,
frosted dew from th' nights cold mist
blanketing acres of serrate damp soil,
grassblades wear th' sun on their tips,
a peacefully warm white burst o' light,
perhaps, Mother Natures kinder side,
accomodations for they dwelling here,
boxed below th' sod, forever sleeping-
th' many souls of unfinished business,
far-long beyond injustice an' sacrifice,
taken young, for love of country, and-
buried in a sea of white stone crosses;
real names attached to dates and war,
the dates not nearly far enough apart,
an' their stories..... would pale a ghost.
'n, from th' Lowlands to th' Highlands,
past th' scarlett shores.....of Donnegal,
there be scant sod, for the future dead
as th' green turf, lo, has turned to sage
from th' souls asleep, numbered large;
th' red nascent sunset eclipsing arches,
shadows creep, gradually....hauntingly
o'er th' etchings.... of each white Cross
An' we visit.....lay down a silent prayer
that peace be found...within this yard
keep mem'ries warm in their eversleep
'neath th' chill o' the white stone cross.
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
Added by Poetry Lover
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