Today we gather roots.
The fork breaks the soil open.
Darkness flees with the ants.
Newborn of the Earth, blinking,
they dry in heaps. My back complains.
This food came from the dirt.
Enriched with manure,
it rotted, rooted and grew.
It's vines gave out, seemed dead,
but it's hidden fullness rested below.
A people rose and fell on a potato hill.
They starved and scattered across the world.
Paddy slipped on a rotten spud
and landed on his arse in America
where I dig praties of my own.
Tell ours in County Cork that we did well enough.
I raise a glass to the O'Keefe clan.
A drop of whiskey, a drop of water, an old song.
We were properly waked and walked on into the west.
Adieu Ballygarvan. Be well. Be at peace.