Alchemisland

What does Ireland do better?

Is our intrigue the Aran sweater

And womb-bred taste for horse’s fetters,

Or is identity no deeper than the depth a feather

Reaches through water. Like leather

Are we sturdy, but peopled untogether.

What does Ireland do finer?

Ours is not the realm of vines, nor winers;

No sun that grows a grape does shine;

Because an irishman is a born opiner –

Which earns him often plumlike shiners –

Tell him no secrets or soon plastered find them

About town; we are not either whiners,

Ocean liners, fine diners or egg timers;

Yet there are things intrinsically our-er, mine-er.

How the sea, sidhe and she we love,

A love that’s shown in sleight and shove;

And how the greedy stars above

Cradle Christchurch in gloaming gloves.

How doves are white yet black is dubh,

Only in ireland is egg an ubh.