In a mystical panoramic view of carrgeen moss dreamscape bordered by glinting golden shamrocks, I see Heaven's rainbows arc and bend down to her dewy embrace, as her windy farms and cliffs of Moher in County Clare glimmer, the ewes bleat to their lambs in the gentle rain's mist, I breathe in her airy fragrance of primrose, bellflowers, and bearded irises, as she reclines queenly in her comely countryside. I listen enchanted to her people's lilting brogue, after all, Irish Gaelic is the language of God, her eventide castle's spirits whisper midst the ghostly presence of Ireland's first full king. Ireland, she of cherish, her lively pubs of rousing cheers, with the rugby team pride of her countrymen, as the stout Guinness flows, the elder's tales of lore do too. Many of Ireland's people are equestrians proud of their horses, they ride horseback neath an opaque sky on a weekend. Dublin hums and bustles, as tourists stroll Parnell Square's cobblestone streets, in a moonlit meadow, silver faced lovers jig in her clover tresses, as her Celtic music ministers to my sorrows. With God's guidance, in a dream of day I kissed the Blarney Stone, and it gifted me with the talk of an everlasting rising of the dawn of peace for her people. My maiden, my Isle, I've penned of your ancestral immortality, from my childhood to my white crown, of your gift of saints and scholars, as I bed down in my emerald imaginings, from across the vasty pond her grace beckons me, Ireland, she of cherish. ~