St.Paddys

A talisman for pinches,
we wore shades of emerald,
forest, grass and lime
as badges of a country
we imagined stuffed with
leperchauns and multicoloured
gold dust trails. As Santa
became imagined figments,
the seventeenth turned beer
green and streets filled
with curved hooks and regurgitated
pub lunches, guiness hats
bonding strangers who forgot
about the Troubles, the men
sat starving, the firing squad
leaving strings of snaked dead.

Photo by numb3r; Poetry by Heather Taylor