the day they blew Mick Collins down
he'd been to home and all around:
laughed with friends in his cousin's pub;
again a cork man,
not a Dub
nor reb who rattled an empire's jewels and
sat with satan to bring home rule
when Dev himself could see it all
and left Mick standing with the ball.
He knew britania's great design
was bombs away if he did not sign.
that day he'd trod without alarm
by rutted road to family farm
to hold his own ones in his arms.
saw old friend faces in fields and slowed
near Bandon town as i am told:
a moonlit road; a craggy pass
is where the great one breathed his last.
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