Had worn her heart on a sleeve.
Had hid it when she’d had to grieve.
She’d cried for much less since
for every unworthy prince.
A moat of tears had flooded her moat.
Her draw-bridge had buckled under the messages she’d wrote.
One winter morn, the snow had settled, and lay
where she would a following summer’s day.
America loomed large, as Ireland became a speck
in the distance, and on deck.
She drank to the emerald isle
and fell asleep with a smile.
A grandmother she would be
over years and years, over that sea.
It may last for just a minute, or at its own pace
but if it’s the latter, fairy-tale tellers will veer from liqueur to lace.
