It started like a poem made in England
The kind we read before, when iambs rhymed
It sounds passé today, in Shakespeare’s wasteland,
But nothing beats a poet’s love well-timed
It strove to hike above the heights of Scotland
To weep as Wallace waged his wildest war
And Ros, in odes to Mòr, could match a pipe-band
The struggling love but craves for Braveheart lore
It followed giants on causeways reaching Ireland
Where Cromwell hailed the snakes saint Patrick slew
But Yeats for Aengus woke his wandering legend
Abiding love, albeit astray, is true
It went to Wales and climbed Snowdonia’s highlands
To watch King Arthur chase the Saxon hounds
And hear the hymns by Williams, holy godsends
That raise this worldly love to higher grounds
Shakespeare, Uilleam, Yeats and Pantycelyn
William is their Christian name, but the bards—
By any other name— but mine can glean
The words to woo a love that folly guards