The Enchanting Woods & Green Heart of Ireland


I walk in the shadows of green seas, their moss and leaves upon my brow,

With the sable soil still on my knees, for beneath them I did bow. 

They hum to me a melodious song, a chanting rhythm they pray,

Of rustling spirits and branching dawn, in their green light I will stay.

To curl the damp earth between my toes, to dream the dream of growth

Their roots entangling my heart a grove, the seedlings burst and throve.

The smell of sharp and feeling bark, so fused beneath my skin,

The lonesome leaf in a tumbling arch, calms the storm within.

The misty dew of mourning, forms tears upon my cheek,

Their kisses full of scorning, for it is I they ever seek.

So natural here to speak the view that all the world is mine,

Wind blown shoots whisper untrue, with a gentle admonishing sigh.

A timber pulse possesses my veins, with green and misty earth,

Wood it creaks in growing pains, and shakes its leaves with mirth.

It is here I ever do belong, in their green light I will stay,

They hum to me a melodious song, a chanting rhythm they pray,

For it is here I shall sleep, in the forest I shall keep, 

In the forest buried deep, yes, in this forest I shall sleep. 




Meandering through the streets of lively Dublin, my travel buddy and I found the most enticing wood clad, carved and detailed pub, yet.  A gorgeous emerald green and filigreed gold, Ryan’s had the air of a respectable establishment. Leather and brass filled the interior as well as a clan of much older, very Irish gentlemen—all with Guinness in hand and poor boy hats at the tilt.   They turned to greet and size us strangers up.

“What’ll ya have?” the bar man asked thickly.

A Guinness Original Extra Stout, of course, was a must.  Especially one off tap in direct sight of the St. Jame’s Gate Brewery founded by, Arthur Guinness, in 1759. 

“Good choice,” he winked saying a phrase often repeated throughout Ireland, “we pour the best pint.”   

I ran my hands over the polished wood of the bar amazed at the character and age of wood.  Greyhound races ran silently overhead on the television. Irish flags along with green and orange balloons hung from the ceiling; a reminder that it was indeed St. Patrick's week.  We took a seat in one of the booths with freshly foaming Guinness in hand.  Just when I thought the atmosphere couldn't get any better, a man in the corner of the pub busted out a beautiful Irish ballad.   The rest of the pub goers nodded their heads and kept time with their boots. 

It was the perfect day to feel and be Irish. 

Ireland Would like to Say: Póg Mo Thóin


Photographs by Justin Kunimoto

Dani SiemsComment