The Celtic Round

I write a dream or ode or villanelle,
About the Irish who drink life to end
(I think I love to face this frothy hell.)

The songs of Danny, a sheep, an old bell,
The rain, the strain from Spain, darkens us then.
I write a dream or ode or villanelle.

On green hills we drink, smoke with sadness, dwell
On the perfect stripes of feathers from a hen
(I think I love to face this frothy hell.)

Old man’s tears for a carcass in the kell
Or the child late married--twenty plus ten.
I write a dream or ode or villanelle.

Life hovers wet as air above a soft well.
We hear the songs around every hard bend
(I think I love to face this frothy hell.)

I have dreamed of castles to build or sell
But there are smaller things the sky will lend.
I write a dream or ode or villanelle
(I think I love to face this frothy hell.)