my blood is western irish,
in a valley aflame with golden gorse,
and the glow of the white hawthorn
our people laid
upon a carpet of heather,
waiting for the end.
my soul recognizes the
sparse loneliness of this place,
it courses through my veins.
in the shadow of Patrick’s mountain
the keening voices of men who are dust
float on the winds
crying out for redemption.
Poem and all photographs Copyright© J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.