An American in Galway, Ireland

by Steven G. Farrell

​

It’s been 200 years

you’ve clearly forgotten me,

but you appear to remember

my name.

 

I have returned to see you,

reliving the olden times:

I’m a Yankee exile,

staring into shop windows.

 

Please welcome me home after

my long journey back to the

land that was once mine

as much it is still yours

​

Three damp days,

wandering in cobblestone streets

buskers sang “Red is the Rose,”

forcing me to cry

 

Weeping in October

with her on my side,

seeking tea in Galway city

she didn’t notice my sighs.

 

I’ve been gone for 200 years

you’ve clearly forgotten me,

 but you appear to remember

my name.

 

Rocky roads

old town stone walls,

smelling the turf

O’Farrell lettered above a door.

 

The donkey knows the way:

to a battered Norman Tower

where a monkish manuscript

provides a lost clue.

 

Passport identifies

while the green earth

signifies something

more than birth.

 

Not asking for much

not even a Gaelic greeting

perhaps a nod acknowledging

the wandering Celt’s return.

 

I’ve been gone for 200 years

You’ve clearly forgotten me,

but you appear to remember

my name.