St Patrick's Day

Rising late from slumber
in the early afternoon rays
kids gleeful to have no school
adults smirking 'cos there not working.
The televisual box is switched on
if only to comply with the celtic rules
and glimpse the parade shifting through Dublin
the usual dancing and twirling
the silly souls spectating head to toe
in macks to keep out the inevitable rain
who keeps her date with our rugged island
March 17th, each and every year.
Another station shows Boston, and New York and Chicago
a bleak reminder of the famine which
drove their names across the Atlantic
to the land of hope and the free.
Which it certainly isn't here
as my nephew bursts in the door
18 euro for a tri-colour and hat
oh to see Pearse's face now.
The local stampede is scheduled for 3pm
so we make our way down at ten to four
under a threatening sky and suffocating air
not stopping we walk on through.
First come the town's young sports teams
all gleamy and proud and joy
I remember being there myself
imagining strutting beside Collins and the gang
commanding attention on the ruins of O'Connel street.
Last were the waste disposal lorries
I tell not a lie
evidently sent to pick up the ideas and thoughts
scattered on the cosain by the the tigers roar.
Hitting the pub to drown our sorrows
at how it all turned out
did you see the Guinness with the shamrock head?
excuse to drink ten more.
Falling home at a dismal hour
a green blur of noise
doing our best imitations
of Paddy from sceals of old.
The books may say
that he turned us gods way
and banished all the snakes
but under the helipads, spire and more
the serpents hisssssss
their fork-tonged song
of promise gone so wrong.