The ballyhoo of the oak

by kdillmanjones



It was a walk in the woods,

in the ballyhoo of the oak.

Reach, search, listen.

The voice was my own,

and was not.

It urged us forward

and back again;

back home, rooted.

We threw our brogues

in the bog,

let Erin in through the gob,

our craic galore.

What a word,


I think I’ll name her then,


Smithereen Guinness.

The whole slew of Erin

right there in her name.

Roam and ramble we did,

past hawthorn and hazel,

laughing, romping, exhaling.

And so we stayed,

long after the high.

Lingering or loitering

in the ballyhoo of the oak.

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