The Path to Ukraine runs into West Cork.
A plan to raise the bar, and drink a toast,
was hatched while zooming with a knife and fork
that shaved black ice, and broke into the host.
Who’d swap their seat around this RIVER bank
for half a loaf of time or tide before
the end conspires to start anew with frank
exchange, with heart exposed to soul like yore?
____________________________________
Begone sweet doubt, uncertainty beguiles
the fool that rests, while hedgehogs sleep beneath
the fallen leaves of oak and ash, the trials
of our winter begging respite, a wreath.
We’re all Ukranians from far and deep,
a measure and a half, too proud to weep.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 