Thursday, August 2, 2007

Easter 2006

Behind the lace portcullis of her curtain,
Alice gazes out upon the day,
Pallid eyes unceasing and uncertain,
Shrinking from the rancour of decay.

Born upon that Easter Monday morning,
When men marched to their doom on Sackville Street,
And Pearse read that proud, heroic warning,
And led his gallant band to sweet defeat.

Her mother, tired and weak in the Rotunda,
Shivered at the echoes of the guns,
And heard denunciations of the plunder,
But only wept for mothers and their sons.

Patriotic dogma to remember,
Proclamation chanted out on cue.
Hearts enchanted to a dying ember,
Ashes disappearing up the flue.

Like a mournful sentinel stands Alice,
Armed with but a pair of frail eyes,
As a world of bitterness and malice
Bangs upon her gate with raucous cries.

Hidden are the ones that we should cherish,
Spirits camouflaged by chintz and lace,
Better that the Irish nation perish
That we should fail to recognise her face.

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