One Irish spring morn,
a wee leprechaun
saw a little pink pig
a-dancing a jig.

Its trotters were
flying all over the place.
Leprechaun cried
“Pig, you are a disgrace.”

“I’m full of the whisky,
that’s why I’m so frisky,”
cried Pig, with a shout
as it fell on its snout.

The folks came a-trotting
to see what was what-ing,
to gaze on the sight
of the pig who was tight.

They proceeded to pick up
that pig with the hiccup.
They took it away
and late that same day,

they dined on some Spam
and lots of boiled ham
then washed it all down
with a drop of the ‘brown’.

The leprechaun
went back home to his dell
and took with him
lots of boiled bacon, as well.

So, pink pigs take warning,
who drink in the morning,
if you want to get tight,
drink your whisky… at night!

Marion Sharville ©


Our restless feet tread the grapes
of our everyday endeavours
and the wine seeps
into the yielding soil.

It colours, destroys or solidifies
the grit of our traditions.
Skirting the bed-rock flints
of our survival, it seeks pockets
of rich loam in which to age.

Lidded with spreading pavements
and battened with high-rise
developments, it marbles,
patterning the present for future eyes
in another Ephesus.

© Marion Sharville


From different entrances they approach
the stage, un-rehearsed, nervous.

Double-billed as lead players
they open the first act,
striving; failing; hating; loving.

Forming a bitter-sweet symphony
backed by the chorus of their family ties,
they pace the stage, hand in hand.

Treading the boards of married life,
the drama unfolds, the curtain
rises and falls on each day…

every scene, the plot changes.

Improvisation conceals the faltering step,
drawing breath in the intervals
to refresh their supporting roles.

Slowly, the diamond years come to rest
in the delicate setting of their frailty.

The spotlight shifts to the understudies
waiting in the wings.

© Marion Sharville

Blog at

Up ↑