Streaks of red stretched across the horizon, the sun beginning to set, the fields meeting the sky in a tight weave. I drove the three visiting Irish poets up and down the hills, around the grid of gravel roads of Buggy Land. It was an early Sunday evening, and nothing was open—not a shop, a grocery store, or a produce stand. So, instead of stopping, we just drove around slowly, passing horses and buggies, boys on horseback, wagons loaded with hay in front of barns.
I find this beautiful, warm, and hilarious all at the same time. (And yet also frighteningly real—how is it that Trump is even in the picture again?) So glad that you can speak/write for the Irish poets and awaken our senses and open our minds.
Love the levity and descriptive imagery; however, this time around the stakes are much higher and consequences more dire than in 2016. Great work, Mary.
I find this beautiful, warm, and hilarious all at the same time. (And yet also frighteningly real—how is it that Trump is even in the picture again?) So glad that you can speak/write for the Irish poets and awaken our senses and open our minds.
We need Buggy Land—not Trump Land.
Bring on the Irish poets! 💚
Oh, I love it!
Love the levity and descriptive imagery; however, this time around the stakes are much higher and consequences more dire than in 2016. Great work, Mary.
Oh, my Gawdess! I remember that debate! Bring on the expressive, irreverent, poetic wit!
Thank you for this. Just what we need for these days.
Irish Poets! We need them.