How she must have missed
those green hills of Ireland.
Walking along hard grey
streets in Brooklyn.
Remembering scent of
grassy meadows hurrying
along ten long blocks,
to climb filthy subway steps.
Missing those sweet soft pastures,
on her way home from work
buying day old bread, searching for
dented cans and items on sale.
Her marriage failed and her health gone.
Her smiling days were over.
No one seemed to care.
The unlucky are often alone.
How she must have longed
for songs around the fireplace.
Another Irish colleen torn
from that emerald island.
Writer: Joan McNerney
Artist: Lorelie Evalin
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