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.