Beurla & Morning has broken, poems published by Ann K Colton

In the confines of my mind
I converse in my native tongue,
recall early school lessons,
Is mise, slan agat go foil, gradh.

They fade like my childhood
warmed on knees by open fires.
songs of Wexford and Vinegar Hill
fused with Tyrones bardic thrill.

Secondary school brought, troubles,
beurla, the fading of the Irish tongue
lost in the distance of war,
Forbidden to utter out of the home.

My words travel through me
like the Oak saturated in bogs
awaiting the re-newel of better times.
Acknowledged, embraced and refined.

The early morning frost leaks
through the old frames.
Frozen webs leave intricate patterns
that should be framed for prosperity.

Shadows flank the hills as mist
gathers like midges on Lough Muck.
Cows huddle for a moo at the hedge
leaving billowing clouds of breath.

Below, the newly built Texaco garage
begins the alien noises of the day.
Car doors slam, hydraulic breaks scream,
and school kids fill up with energy..

Then like an open wound, the horizon
splits the grey morning, bringing with it
A baked setting full of challenges and hope
for coming hours.