Sun, salmon pink, roars in brilliant silence
striving out of the mouth
of the bay;
it flays the distant limestone rock
with purple sheen of heather bloom,
And the land sings joy! Screams
into breeze that
God forgot to make it fertile.

This is the sea of Niamh’s white horse,
the thundering galloping Atlantic wave,
the simpering soft of hollow cave -
It sings in praise and dances brave
that God forgot to make it fertile.

These are the lakes of the falling girl,
the princess dead of river’s name,
and as she drowns she smiles to think
that God forgot to make her Fertile.

This is the shore of coral beach,
where seals do nightly humans wed,
and walk amongst the seaweed rocks
in the land that God forgot to make fertile.

This is the acid, barren soil,
that holds the remains of a million years,
that saw the mighty elk there roam,
and nurtures wise man’s sacred oak.

This is the earth that burns in fires,
and claims your life with ankle grip,
that laughed to be declared Empire,
when God forgot to make it fertile.

This is the land of the Pirate Queen,
Who sailed the Thames to keep her own,
the island lakes and fathomless fjord,
That God forgot to make fertile.

This is the tongue of the time-worn Gael,
who blessed the rock and sea and sand,
with titles that proclaimed them proud,
Made meaningless for foreign ears.

This is where the lark will cry
when men like you are dead and gone,
when Dublin rots into the ground
and bogland swallows up its bones,

Atlantic wind looks sad at streets,
whose desolation runs as deep,
as any acid boghole pit,
In depth of Connamara’s womb.

And sickly pallor turns our heads
From dying rotting Dublin town,
A fertile place if ever there was,
and softening now like fruit too ripe,

The barren west keeps lips tight shut,
and gently turns its face away,
From sickly Northside Soutside spikes
from streets unblessed with names like ‘Chatham.’

Silently we’ll sing the praise
that no one built their outpost here,
and cradle barren lifeless days,
with joy, and thanks, and sweet revery,
That forever on the days will reel
in the land God forgot to make fertile.

by Tim Mac an Airchinnigh, 25 August, 2009