Is this an Irish Poem?

Figments Of Broken Dreams

Through cold November nights
Like long lost days of spring;
Of bright meadows, of emerald green,
A faintly remembered face comes visiting.
Through piles of laundry and firewood
When she lies down to catch a breath
Old murmurs rustle in with the wind,
The peals of laughter when they met.
To dream of the visions that come haunting
Of days and nights and years without him.

More than a decade has passed by
Faces streaked with tears, dried, ashen and wet
Blood-stained faces that weep, that wept.
Through storms, winds and the bloody sky,
The familiar faces come haunting by,
Looking for love and remembrance
While a young girl looks over a wooden fence
Waiting for her mother to bring more firewood.
For fire they must build, as large as they could;
And through rain-beaten pathways, she brings in the wood.

Those eyes that shone, now dimmed and bleak,
Watch them eat the bread hungrily
While the fire flickers and warms their clammy feet;
The fire that sings of old times and dances merrily.
Of red wine and brides and merry bands,
Of hymns and notes and Celtic sands
Of tufted greens and fields of corn
Of happier days, now washed and gone.
Two pairs of eyes now live through the woods
Whispering, walking, carrying, as fast as they could.

Rain-washed August would bring the berries along
Yellow-haired young maids and their sweet songs
Rushing through fields of yellow hay
Hurrying and scurrying before the skies turn grey
With baskets full of ripened flesh
And aprons lined with a purple mess.
Who goes to the fields now, when the rains are done?
Who picks the berries under the short-lived sun?
They care not for the purple preserves and fields of corn
For it brings back thoughts of the ones dead and gone.

Where the grass was dewy and soft to touch,
Where the bluest mountains kissed the turquoise skies,
There is no dew, it hasn’t rained much
Only dead leaves drift in, bringing along bugs and flies.
The woods are dark and they have tasks to do
For whispers, faces, memories, the wind brings along
The grief of olden days that they cannot undo
Of a golden voice that sang a merry song.
The flute that lies broken and sad
Sings to itself of the glorious days that they once had.

Through darkness, despair and broken dreams,
Lost love, lost ways and withered greens,
They live their lives of untold sorrow,
And weave figments of a merrier tomorrow.
Through sun-kissed corn may her daughter run free
May she smile through the veil of the dying sun
May they rest their aching backs under the autumnal trees
Their yellows and reds splattered by the wind wanton.
May the dead faces in sorrow never return
But only to live in happier dreams for seven lifetimes and one.

Death is but a state of immovability. The faces that have left us live along, filling us with varying intensities of emotion. This Irish mother and daughter duo have witnessed the savagery of time but they hope to overcome their misery and lead better lives in the land of roses, dandelions and cornfields galore.