To dream of Ireland

To dream of Ireland
             is to conjure Spring.
Who imagines Ireland
             in the Winter?
To dream of Ireland
             is to ache in chords
             moaning music
             formed of soul’s memory.
My bones know
              what to do when the pipes sound -
              feet launch themselves unbidden
              leap through time,
              the sinews of ancestors
              straining as ancient bowstrings
              to fling the dancer’s limbs aloft.
My blood surges
              from heart chambers
              forged with invading Viking iron,
              rushes through veins
              woven from the taut pale skins
              of Celtic wisewomen.
Each heartbeat
              dreaming green
              calling back through  memory’s
              haunted caverns
              from parched California hills
              to Clonmel’s murmuring meadows.