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tick followed tock...

I imagine lying in a field of shamrock
but to be honest I don't really know what they are
or why they're so-called.

Are they clover - so close to lover?
But never quite close enough.

In millennia, they might become
real rocks, if they're sedentary enough,
or sedimentary enough.

Have I used enough enough? Enough!
I digress again, trying to forget what, who,
I always think of, on St Patrick's Day.

That black liquid, only drunk
on this occasion, by me at least,
in pubs that still seem smoky,

Where that gorgeous lilting accent
is everywhere,
and a smile in every eye.

This year, I will not be in any pub, will not hear
that accent, will not gulp an ice-cold Guinness,
and the only toucan of affection is on my wall.

No, my heart is off with the faeries
In my emerald-green imagined future
under those rolling, rippling hills.

updated Wed 17 Mar '10 give feedback...