I come from the soil, from earth

from grimy fingernails scrabbling for potatoes

I come from a great hunger and deep brown

furrows planted with cabbages and sprouts

and the mournful call that was Donegal

weeping for her children.

I come from the wind and the salt spray

blowing us over the Irish sea

to new soil, to soil in which potatoes flourished

and farmers grew richness and plenty.

I come from the whinnying of horses

and the clatter of mills

from hills and dark valleys,

and hedgerows heavy with hawthorn flowers.

I come from those who died too young

and from those who lived too long.

There are no roads here,

only lifetimes under an unending sky

and my roots deep in the same brown earth

my ancestors walked.