For Granny, A Poem
P erched in the sanctuary of a Strackleran abode, rhyme after riddle after poem or song; English and Irish, both she could do, so it goes and so it was, so it is to be true... Mother of Strackleran, Mother of Ireland's tongue! Sprinkling the room with her magical words, I grew up with the fairies, amongst other mysteries; the Banshee and that Boogyman, the bane of my life, but none would compare to the notorious, Dabharchú. The cats and the dogs and the birds would take stock, and I am certain they enjoyed the merriment too, for Granny was my portal to the natural world, to a spiritual realm, she helped me unlock. And perhaps for the daffodils that convened in the breeze, and the whispers of butterflies beneath hymns from the bees - the suspicions we shared were all one in itself - was this Mother of Strackleran, Mother Nature herself? 'Poor Little Kitty' was the name of a song, Granny taught me to croon to the cats. A unique little tonic for despaired felin...