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
