Oh Ireland, I am your daughter Generations removed but not the wonder Drawn to your lore and mystery I’ve dreamed of you across the sea.
I am a mut, a mix of kin Grown up in Poor Town, Oregon My father’s chin, red beard covered, Reminds me of a special clover
I walked along a mossy path In Oregon’s green wilderness My broken heart longed for another That’s when I saw God’s love in clover
Oh Ireland, your hills are green Your son, Patrick, helped me believe When once I saw that sign of love I prayed, “Oh Lord, bless Ireland”
You love me, Lord I saw that day A sure sign None can take away
For there amidst green hearts of clover A blood red heart made me to wonder
Published by Sheila Dougal
Hey, I'm Sheila, glad you're here.
A little about me: I'm a 40-something woman, wife, mom, RN, soap maker and wannabe suburban homesteader. I think better when I write. I've kept a journal since I was 9 and started blogging over 10 years ago.
I'm introverted, but I love people. I'm curious but shy. I'm contemplative and easily distracted. I feel deeply and know numbness. I want to make things right and I'm learning to let go. I wax poetic sometimes and often don't know what to say. It's complicated.
It boggles me that I am Christ's and he is mine. I gaze into the heavens and the Heaven-Maker's words, remember the hard things, fight depression, and long for home and King.
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