The Wicker Cradle
By Charlotte Ruane, 1st year.
I was lovingly made with calloused hands,
After the couple were united by the ‘Reading of The Bands’,
A child they hoped to bear quite soon,
Before the final crescent of the harvest moon.
Alas ,their first born was not destined to survive,
Nature is cruel for the babe in arms died,
As she took her final breath,
Born an angel , stolen by death.
Once more I await with open arms ,
Praying that mother and child will come to no harm ,
A son was born , healthy and alive,
This time round , destined to survive.
After him ,they had one more ,
And death was banished from the door,
William his name ,a hero to be ,
Both he and his brother would set Éire free .
Those legends I nurtured from infancy ,
would change the course of history ,
but their lives were cut short at the end of the rising ,
on May 3rd nineteen sixteen.
I now reside all dusty and old ,
My story ,finally will be told,
Proud to say I carried him,
From cradle to grave ,
Pádraig Pearse , died proud and brave .