For St. Patrick's Day and my ancestors who made the long trip from Ireland to New Zealand in the 19th century. Diaspora However tall your ships were, how long they took to reach your chosen shores, could they contain intact your beating hearts, swollen with leaving, aching with imminent arrival; the slow salt haul on following seas? Were prayers said daily, attempting to appease those catholic saints, their shapes reminiscent of wet lands you left in colder parts particularising rain? Did you pack your laws, clutch them closely, like an Irish song? How do we gauge the sorrow leaving brings but by a return in our imaginings.