By Anna Zabiega
Four fields of green,
Eternally so green,
Thriving, growing, nourished
By the unremitting rain
That blesses these hills and cliffs,
Existent longer than time itself.
Buildings tall and small,
Reds, yellows, blues, stone and art,
Murals of giant faces and dead rock stars.
Musicians busking fill the air
With melodies that thrill your soul.
Flowers and lights ornament streets and shops,
Stone streets and stone fences.
The same stone that lies beneath
Our feet and builds the high hills,
Out of the city. Farms unrolling for miles
With cows and horses sauntering and feasting.
Wildflowers, so small and colorful,
Grow out of cracks between rocks
Tiny pieces of a shattered rainbow
Sprouting out of the ground.
Grassy hills covered with sheep,
Specks of white against the green.
Valleys with streams, strong currents,
Tides rising and falling as the minutes go by.
Castles and ancient homes withering
On the side of the road.
Bullet marks still etched into the columns
Of a post office. History is everywhere.
Rocky beaches, water always frigid to the touch.
On a sweet warm night, relax
At wooden pubs with local beers,
That bitter black stuff refreshes.
Enjoy the live music, guitars and woodwinds
Mesmerize the crowd.
Indulge in potatoes, cheese, and dark bread,
One hundred percent Irish beef and chicken,
Delicious as the weekend market
Where farmers sell fresh produce
And food trucks serve crepes and donuts.
Craftsmen sell their leather and wooden goods.
All the craic encompassed within these
Four fields of green,
Eternally so green.