The White Stone Crosses O' Donegal Poem by Frank James Ryan Jr...fjr

Their today's begin- as the yesterday's,
frosted dew from th' nights cold mist-

blanketing acres of serrate damp soil,
sunshine grazing tips of grass-blade;

peacefully warm white burst of light,
perhaps Mother Natures kinder side-

for their silent, mortal dwelling place,
boxed below th' sod- forever sleeping

be these souls of unfinished business,
far-long beyond injustice an' bloodshed,

taken young for th' love of free breath,
now buried in a field of white crosses;

real names attached to dates and war,
their dates so tragically not far apart,

[an' their stories would pale a ghost].

An' from th' lowlands to th' highlands,
beyond th' smooth shores o' Donnegal-

there be scant sod, for the future dead
fresh green sod has, lo, turned to sage,

red nascent sunsets eclipse stoned arch.
shadows creep, gradually....hauntingly-

[o'er th' etchings... of every white Cross].

And we visit...lay down silent prayers
that Peace be found...by these Soldiers,

keep them warm in eversleep.....'neath-
th' chill...........of their white stone cross.






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Frank James Ryan Jr. / FjR