I am Éire
                      high on
                                          the gas of 1916
               floating on
   the cloud
                        of a Clontarf dream

I am Éire
word-fire flickering in
the belly of my soldier messenger
but little does he know
of the forked tongues
of dealers in the body politic
 
I am the free state
part-whole
whole-part
my phantom limb in pain
an inconvenient spot on my
self-determined gain
 
I am the North
the Northern Ireland fix
part longing to belong
but my south
my east my west
a Britannia-Éire mix
 
I am Ireland
a land
a dream
a grá
a place you can call home
no matter where you are.

Picture taken from the Terrace in Currabinny. Extract from poem "I am Éire" by Alison Hackett

© copyright Alison Hackett   (first posted online 6 July 2016)