My blood cannot be denied
Nor the draw, like a haunt, pulling.
The shock of seeing, the wake reversed
The moment of revelation;
Returning to the homestead.

But not the open arms of family;
They are long dead. The famine was unkind.
Instead, strangers smile, point out the view
Unaware, at heart, of the moment’s depth.
Ireland at last.

It is as green. It is as old.
The castles that waited are still there,
Ruins now, covered in moss
Neighboring now to asphalt roads
Banded in stone.

Connemara ponies with auld chieftain’s eyes
Watch you as you roll by
Cameras clicking. They are not moved,
They are not changed. They live free,
Wild as the ancients before them.

The cliffs, the islands, brooding in the sad mists
Holding aches like babies to their breasts.
How to understand what your heart tells you is true?
There is no time. There is no time.
And yet, you are there.

You laugh, embarrassed by the tears
That well from unknown depths.
At a loss to explain them;
The dolmans have gone green without you.
You are not from here now.

But you are. You are.
Your emotion betrays you.
Blood will tell. There is no mistaking.
Even now, prodigal,
The standing stones await you.

~Morgan Daltry 

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