Mad Mother Ireland

He returns
Home to Mad Mother Ireland
Where wreathes
Are strewn 'round the
Tombs of Yeats and of
MacNeice and he
Returns because
The Saints and Monks running
Thru' his blood;
The pilots in the
Back of his eyes
Broadcast silently all those
Poems he meant
To write and across
The Atlantic the albatrosses
Glittered like
Rosary beads. Ireland
Holds only the same
Answers as
His questions so he
Draws even at some
Cemetery,
Laying flowers and
Garlands at the
Tomb of his own father who was
A poet of sorts and out of
Sorts with the maddened world in
Itself.
Today, he celebrates some saint. He
Looks beyond the water: all those
Poems he has yet to
Write spreading green-leaved
Across the graves of Irish poets and here
He is returning: monks
And pilots and
Easter, 1916. Mad Ireland

Mad Mother
Ireland.