My Place

My place

A parish less than two square mile

Old fashioned here’s the height of style.

Still it’s called home by many souls

Who think of it on foreign shores

And wish to God that they were home

Not exiled to some great unknown

This place can not support its sons

Its skiens leave and dont return

Daugters go to learn new ways

Or stay condemned to be old maids.

Its families sundered, torn apart

The cost to leave a broken heart

On a greater scale of no import

Its people not the common sort

But soon this place will pass from time

And surely that is cause to shame

That those who could reverse the rot

If only it was worth a vote.

They dont deign to show their face

They care not for my place.

When the final soul has gone

Or widows, children left, alone

Walls and dreams fall apart

Its single road returns to earth

Their will be no saving grace

Just the sad demise of my place.

© Dave Kavanagh @ daithiocaomanaigh.com

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