Clara Sheridan-Bryson

Poetry, Irish Perspectives

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Push us away from shore with our make shift satchel, full of pollution and sin, they said.
Not here, they said.

Poisoned, calloused hands on the smalls of our backs,
Prodding and probing with toxic questioning.

Push us on a see-sawing sail boat into an infinity shaped storm, churning in circles with
political agendas
ringing in our ears.

Your problem, they said, as we’re shoved headlong into oncoming waves.

Deal with it out of our sight, they said.
This is not what our country stands for, they said.
Well, maybe not, but we stand
On this country’s soil,
And we demand

To be caught before our heads hit the ground

If it is so

That our legs wobble and become weak.
We want to know,
That if we bloody our noses,

We shall not be met with steely faces and ferry tickets.

We want to know,
That if we seek support,


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