On Green An Islan Poem by Jan Oskar Hansen

The Emerald Isle

Sailing into Cork, I saw the green hill and the sea were jade.
Understood why Ireland is called the Emerald Island.
On sheer slopes sheep grazed, chances I thought,
the slightest slip and they would fall into the verdant waters,
why do not graze at the plateau, be happy with modest
fodder if not as succulent as, grass, too Insafe to get at.
And sheep that fall are caught by voracious vessels and turned into a stew.
Cork was a pretty port it had no hasty feel back then,
it became a busy place ignoring the hazardous slopes,
holy is economic growth, lush living for everyone.