Abandoned Graveyard On Dingle

My ancestors starved here -
maybe this very field.
Now here I stand
sated and free, of America.
Looking at siblings, cousins, parents
whom my great-grandparent could not save.

Even with all things shared,
cared for as best could be,
life did not shine kindly on all.
Politics and fate weighed heavy on the family
and my ancestor watched as loved ones died.

They loved, they helped, they keened, they grieved, they left.

And I a child of the Diaspora
now stand in the windswept graveyard
on Dingle’s shore
and feel the salted breeze which blows
across the many generations.

While clean sea air fills my senses
I vigil weather-carved tombstones
touching the faded lettering
feeling the communion of saints,
the resurrection of man.

I love this place
between sea and mountains
in ancient church ruins
overrun with vines,
this hallowed ground.

I mourn that these were not the fields I played in as a child
although my ancestors may have starved here –
maybe this very field.


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note: Diaspora is the term for the exiled or the mass emmigration out of Ireland.

Note: this poem is part of a collection, to read more please see:  "Ireland "  E: Barúlacha Fileata~poetic observations~poems inspired by my trip to my ancestoral home   Sláinte!