Wayward Heart

And there it is again
an Irish call to a British heart
brought up on Blake
but yearning for the Yeats it never knew
until one day a sly poetry book
battered and sellotaped
found its way home
tingling the fingertips of that wayward heart
kindling for wanderlust of the green isle,
greener that the flag
that will still fly when the march has stopped
and the arms are put to rest.
Even when the dust settles, and the echoes still
you’ll find that heart bleeds green.
In the body and soul of white red and blue
you’ll find that heart bleeds green.

Kimberly Jamison

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