He lay back wearily upon pillows piled high,
His once bright eyes dull with pain.
A weak smile pulled at his lips as shaking hand
Cleaved through once abundant hair,
Now thinned by toxic treatments.
“Now listen to me, Dottir.
There’s things ya be needin’ ta know,
About where yer people come from –
And land so green, it would tear yer heart.
Dottir, stop yer cryin’! We must be partin’ soon.
And if ya be wantin’ to remember me – I can tell ya the way.
So hush. Hush. Hush.
Dottir, remember your roots!
And every year – be wearin’ the green!
Wear it with pride, girl – yer head held high
For it’s poets ya come from,
Aye – and great men and women too,
Who would not be held down!
And don’t ye be, girl. Don’t ye be.”
© Debra Shiveley Welch 2014