Runner-up: An Triú L3 de Mhí Bealtaine, 1916

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An Triú Lá de Mhí Bealtaine, 1916

The door creaks open before me,
And I march.
Head held high,
They will not know my fear.

The grim, grey courtyard surrounds me.
The gravel, the walls, the atmosphere,
All is grey.

So this is where it ends,
The gravel crunches beneath my feet.
For a fleeting moment,
The leaden reality washes over me.
I panic.

I am about to die.
All the things I have never done,
All the people I have never met,
I have lost so many unmade memories.
I am led to the spot of my execution.
My mind races.

“In ainm an Athar agus an Mhic agus an Spioraid Naoimh, Áiméin”.
My last rights are over.
The British official marches behind me.
He is to blindfold me now.

Will it have made any difference?
Will I have died in vain?
As I take my final glimpses of this world,
Of my ashen surroundings,
I think perhaps I was foolish.
I was foolish to think that Patrick Pearse could liberate a nation.

But in that final moment,
As the blindfold  is lowered over my eyes,
I look up.
And I spot a tiny pocket of briliant blue
Peeping out from behind the grey, Dublin clouds.
And I know.

I know in my heart.
All goes black.
Éire Abú.


Jane Rigby
St. Mary’s College
Naas, Kildare