From Celtic shores,
Mother roared,
Like a lioness,
Loving her new cub.

A pack of four now,
With different views,
All perfectly right.
Or so we thought.

Loved by all,
The young sisterly one,
All white in your First Communion dress.
Completely Irish, in all but accent.

Mother roared again,
Four more times,
Made three cubs, plus one lion.
Gazing in a mirror from some future place.

Love not always obvious,
But always present.
You protected the cubs.
The Mother roared again.

A new time is here,
More roaring, more mothers, more cubs.
For love to embrace all, forgive all.
The Lioness looks out on her kingdom and smiles.

Copyright Michael J. Cunningham

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