How she must have missed
those green hills of Ireland.
Walking along hard grey
streets in Brooklyn.
Remembering scent of
grassy meadows hurrying
along ten long blocks
to climb the filthy subway.
Her marriage failed, her health
gone. Nobody seemed to care.
Her smiling days were over.
The unlucky are often alone.
Missing those sweet soft pastures.
On her way home from work
buying day old bread and searching
for dented cans and items on sale.
How she must have longed
for songs around the fireplace.
Another beautiful Irish colleen
torn from that emerald island.
Very touching poem on ‘My mother’