After the wolves and before the elms <br />the bardic order ended in Ireland. <br /> <br />Only a few remained to continue <br />a dead art in a dying land: <br /> <br />This is a man <br />on the road from Youghal to Cahirmoyle. <br />He has no comfort, no food and no future. <br />He has no fire to recite his friendless measures by. <br />His riddles and flatteries will have no reward. <br />His patrons sheath their swords in Flanders and Madrid. <br /> <br />Reader of poems, lover of poetry— <br />in case you thought this was a gentle art <br />follow this man on a moonless night <br />to the wretched bed he will have to make: <br /> <br />The Gaelic world stretches out under a hawthorn tree <br />and burns in the rain. This is its home, <br />its last frail shelter. All of it— <br />Limerick, the Wild Geese and what went before— <br />falters into cadence before he sleeps: <br />He shuts his eyes. Darkness falls on it. <br /> <br /> <br />Eavan Boland<br /><br />Eavan Aisling Boland<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-country-in-darkness/
