Wild Country- NaPoWriMo Poem 8

This poem was written in bus, in a near illegible scrawl. It was my third day in Ireland and I had just spent a very pretty day in the pretty town of Waterford. This bus was taking me to Cork, trundling through the -beyond words can describe- Irish countryside and it was raining outside. I was comparing it a bit to the Scottish countryside. And also the patriotism of the Irish, which isn't unlike the Indian version of patriotism.


The world beyond my window
Is dissolving
Into liquid.
There is a wildness
To this country
There is a rightness
To this country.

Gone are neat fields
And stacked
Bales of hay
Of the the old Empire.
There is only
The roaring sea
The woolly sheep
The jumping hare
The rushing bus
The tangled bush
The dissolving world
And me-
Frantic
To make a memory.
It refuses
To solidify
Into a pigment picture
To be tucked away.

There is a wildness
To this country.
There is a rightness
To this country.