Irelands daughter, and Wales’ woman — a poem

I am Ireland’s daughter
Dark-haired, blue eyed wonder.
Each vein seen,
In freckle-milk skin,
Sing me a ballad
As they stretch within.
Pumping through me
A tree,
A family,
Generations of fault lines.
Faith lines.
Palmistry.

I am Wales’ woman
A valley-raised,
Mountain-climbing human.
A mash-up of proudly prideful,
A song singing from each mouthful.

School trips
To Big Pit
Reminders of a tide-full,
Of my incredible people
Who with tears, and songs and blood
Gripped pickaxes of hope
And built homes
Dotted in hills
Cupboards filled
With food that nourished me
When I was starving
And voices that told me
I wasn’t nothing.

The first believers
In my weirdness,
Enveloped me, an outsider
A shameful hider.
They gently unlocked
Each cage and each box.
Overlooked bruises
I was hiding
Gave me medicine
Of sweet, milky tea, piping.
Sat me next to warm bodies
On squishy sofas
And taught me
how to keep my home clean
How to be welcoming.

Wales raised me
And saved me.
It’s people, as much a part of me
As the moss that clings
To the slate rock on each roof
And the gutters we proudly clean
Because wales is proud.
And even though
They gave us nothing
We made everything.

I am Ireland’s daughter,
And Wales’ woman.
A messy, marvel, Celtic
Traveller.
Nomadic by nature,
And always home,
By nurture.