The World’s Need
"So many gods, so many creeds,
So many paths that wind and wind,
While just the art of being kind,
Is all the sad world needs."
quote by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1855-?)
from Little Book of American Poets

Contents

Ireland 

Ireland, Sweet Ireland
Little Clover
Déjà vu
By the Irish Sea
Harley, the Gordon Setter

Scotland

On the Loch
Stony Brook
The Highlands
Castles
In Sweetheart Abbey

Ireland

Ireland, Sweet Ireland

Ireland, sweet Ireland
A sight to behold
Around every corner
Your green fields unfold.

Fair skin, blue eyes
Bright smiles and freckles
Rosy-cheeked children
Riding horses with speckles.

Hills of green velvet
In mist, sun and shade
Sweet smell of clover
From deep in the glade.

Under the moonlight 
The fairies come dancing
Mischievous pookas
And leprechauns prancing.

All in a ring
‘Round the fire they go
Singing and laughing
‘Till the moon’s sinking low.

Back in the city
Color marks every door
Pubs on each corner
We’ll stop at one more.

Sweet tempered servers
Greet us at dinner
We can see by the menu
We’ll go home no thinner.

Ireland, sweet Ireland
Your food, hearth and kin
Have stolen our hearts 
We’ll be back again!

Little Clover

Little clover in the rock
Blowing in the wind.
Smiling at the summer sun
Then cast in shade again.

Your face upturned for all to see
To stoop and smile at you.
But if they pass and don’t look down
You feel a little blue.

All day and night you stand on guard
O’er rocky hill and dale.
Your soft green leaves salute the sky
Your vigil never fails.

Seasons come and seasons go
And still your head’s held high.
Your pride is true, your job is set
Till the close of life draws nigh.

Déjà vu

Have I been here before?
It certainly seems so.
Do I know these people?
I really can’t say.

The scents evoke a quickened heartbeat
People’s faces evoke a smile in me.
The sights evoke tears of familiarity
What can this all mean?

This is all so strange
I feel it in every cell of my body.
It warms and comforts me
How can this possibly be?

Alas, nothing is impossible
How very little we really know
Of the world before and beyond.

By the Irish Sea

Each twilight
Looking out to sea.
Waiting for the faint sight
Of the fishermen’s boat.

Home fires burning
Cattle are lowing
Winds whipping skirts and shirttails
All as day draws to a close.

The days are long
The seas are cold
This mist is low
And spirits drag.

Then it is spied, the tiny boat
Heading home, flags flying
It’s been a good day, a good catch
God is generous with His blessings.

More peat on the fire
Heat the kettle
Light the candles
Get out the fiddle and share a smile.

Children gather to help prepare supper
Chores are the right time for song.
All is well in the little thatched cottage
Joy, peace and love to end the day.

Harley, the Gordon Setter

Dear Harley,
The guardian of Bundoran
Looking out to sea
Then back, surveying his shore.

Wind in his fur
Heaven in his eyes
Wet and sandy
Full of life.

Chasing gulls
Splashing in the surf
Sand flying from his feet.
Tongue wagging out the side of his mouth.

Ears flapping in the wind
Tail waving in a proud salute.

This is Harley’s heaven
The sands of Bundoran.
May he run free
For many years to come.

Scotland

On the Loch

Tossing about on Loch Ness
In a little wooden skiff
Hoping to catch a glimpse of Nessie
Through the peat clouded water.

Passing by a cozy inlet
Small fishing vessels bob
Side by side, keeping time
As if in a dance.

Further along
An old castle sits statuesquely on a hill.
Part of it becomes shrouded in mist off the loch.

Suddenly, outlined in the fog
Is a lone bagpiper.
His mournful sounds fill the air
You can almost touch his music.

Coming out of the mist
A castle emerges on the hill
All these lovely sights
Alas, no sight of Nessie.

Stony Brook

Sitting by a stony brook
A tall green reed in hand.
Listening to the water’s song
Looking ‘oer the land.

Wondering where this waters been
Wondering where it goes.
Singing on its merry way
As day and night it flows.

Skipping over rocks so smooth
Winding ‘round the bend
Keeping time with nature’s tune
Looking for the end.

Lying back amid the green
Looking toward the sky
Could this be what heaven is like?
By gosh, I’d like to die.

The Highlands

Heather is abloom on all the moors
Rosebud pink and buttery yellow
Out crops of thistle tufts
Sprout through craggy rocks
Showing off their lavender hues.

Winds begin to blow
The clouds across the sky
Shadowing the hillsides
In tones of blue and gray.

Not a soul in sight
What a great feeling
All alone in the hills
Breathe deeply.

Savor the heavenly fragrance of the moors
A smell to capture forever
In your heart, mind and soul.

Castles

Storm clouds gather behind the castle
Tall and stone cold
Giving an extra aura of eeriness.

Spires jut skyward as though
Hoping to be lifted to heaven.
Windows of every shape and size
Reflect the blackness within.

Balconies stand empty
Birds have moved into
Every eave and crevice.

Moats are strewn
With leaves and dirt
Where water once secured the castle
And all its inhabitants.

The birds and the wind
Are the only sounds
As the crumbling structure
Blends into the Scottish mist.

In Sweetheart Abbey

This old graveyard transports you
To a time long go, in mind and spirit.
The very air
Is filled with a calm and peacefulness.
White, gray and black clouds
Huddle overhead giving a chill to the air.

The cracked and toppled tombstones
Try to hold their heads high.
Once lovely gray granite and slate
Honoring those who are gone
Are now whitened with age and weather.

Those resting here cannot be identified
As the epitaphs are no longer legible.
Although the yard is quiet
It is still filled with the aura of those who
Rest beneath the soft green grass.

They were once loved enough
To be carefully placed in this beautiful spot
And have tender words
Engraved in stone for all who care to see.

No flowers bedeck these graves
As those who put them here
Are gone as well.