Wild Irish Rose
In the place beyond twilight she’s waiting for you,
As you stroll down the lane of warm gold and cold blue.
Softly she whispers your name through the breeze.
Or is it the wind caressing the trees?
Fairies will gaze as they prance through the air,
wishing their dresses were spun from her hair.
They gaily and nimbly dance rings ‘neath her feet.
She watches them fondly, her smile is so sweet.
Deep in this wood, shadowed by mist,
she’s lying here hidden, she silently twists.
In the hedgerows, the ditches: grass glistens with dew.
She listens, she lingers, she’s longing for you.
Not where bramble and briar and blackberries grow,
Nor where moss and green lichen or cloaked rivers flow.
But in storm and in thunder her cries may be found,
for her sweet voice is lost and makes no human sound.
Let the radiant birds sing in chorus above,
as she has no tongue: cannot speak of her love.
Feathered cousins sing for her, of all her desire.
For her loves flame to touch her, and set her afire.
For your intimate smile and the light in your eyes.
Aching with sorrow her tears have run dry.
So the stream cries for her, it’s tears are a flood.
Cascading down over pebbles and mud.
Now she waits for the day when her splendid display
can be plucked from it’s thorns and held to your nose.
For her incomparable love of you - in the heart of her petals glows.
Making your heart smile with content,
drinking her perfume: a potion of scent.
Virtuous, Noble, Faithful and True
One bloomed for you only - the last of a few.
Who can tell you the hour or the day,
when her fingers come searching for your heart to play?
Kisses like rainbows, - Your Wild Irish Rose.
Tara A. Reynor - 1999