Ireland

I think about it all the time,
The grassy plains
And the homely feel that each individual
Building gave to the heart.

The place I used to call home.

The wooden house on the top of the hill,
Built by the father of my generations past.
The stone bridge where I received my first kiss,
And the dark rapids below that revealed by lover’s drowned corpse.
The hotel down the hill,
Where I waited for the carriage that would steal me from my home.

The place I used to call home.

Where tears, laughter, cries, and celebrations
Float on the wind,
Brushing on the tips of grass.

And my tears float on with the wind
And gently fall to rest on the plains
Of the home that was once mine.