Ode To Yeats

They walk the bogs and boreens
Himself and Synge,
sketching his thoughts on minute pads
As the fields of Conammoragh
stroll beneath their feet.

The pads he dicards to the
vagaries of the winds
To do with as they will,
Their message etched deep within.

He found everyone
of interest and charm.
No tale so boring or story farfetched
To hold his attention.

He was told of the mass fleeings
To the land of plenty,
Where gold littered the streets
And wondered at their return,
Until his eyes were tempted
To the lush green fields
Catching up to the mountains,
And he nodded.

He heard of the poverty and sadness.
The endless scratching
of soil for sustenance.
And he saw the beauty
As they tramped the
hills of conammoragh,
Himself stalwart,
dying Singe.