Ann Glover

It was a long way from the green fields and boggy moss

to the tropical heat of Barbados

where the ship took them,

those Irish peasants,

as seeped in idolatry as their homeland was in rain,

or that’s what the masters said 

so far as she understood

their language 

as harsh and severe 

as the god they worshipped.

And it was a long way from the tropical heat of Barbados

to the master’s house in Salem 

the last port of call

for some of those Irish peasants,

those who survived so far,

still enslaved

but called ‘indentured’ now.

She always believed it was her tongue

that killed her,

not its sharpness,

Irish was a gentle language, after all

and she never learned theirs

so their questions

could not be understood

or answered. 

And what answers could she give in any language?

What language could tell them

who was godly

and who was devilish,

who was a witch

and who was a saint.

Only power could speak

and the Irish had none.

Only power can speak

and slaves have none.

https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2025/06/luck-of-irish.html