Sunday Morning
It’s early on Sunday morning
Grey, unsure what the day will deliver.
It’s the the sad and confused ending
To a month that has left us reeling.
Memories of cold wars and hot ones
Invade our waking and our sleeping
Shades of Hitler stalk the airwaves
Distressed survivors on our TVs.
Kyiv* is up and dressed for two hours
While we were sleeping it slipped into
The same clothes it wore on Wednesday
The day before the nightmare started.
*pronounced ‘kee-yiv’
Young Russian conscripts are parked
Out of diesel and waiting supplies
Some unsure of where they are
Unconvinced of what they’re fighting for.
The courage we have seen has roused us
Convinced us that we can turn down the heat
We are still capable of sacrifice
That will cheapen Putin’s gamble.
A bully will not learn his lesson
Without a bloodied nose
No amount of words will work
Unless we silently pick his pocket.
We Irish have our own demons
Our populists with loud megaphones
Who like Putin threaten the fabric
Of what once made Ireland famous.
Ukraine, you are bleeding
Before our eyes this morning
The voices of mothers with babes
Carry the seas and the mountains.
You are welcome in Ireland to stay
For as long or as short as it takes
Our arms stretch out across Europe
On this unremarkable day.
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