Memories Of An Irish Farm

Living in America, I miss our farm in County Cork.

There I feel at home.

Today, I can only dream of ….

 

The call of the cuckoo echoing behind Maytime blossoms;

Swooping swallows dancing before me;

The river gurgling under the old iron bridge

My father crossed to school;

Bales of hay stacked in yellow, shorn fields of summer;

 

 

The lazy, ancient boreen meandering to the woods;

Red and purple flower bells chiming in my heart;

Wading through fat rolls of fog in the early morning yard;

Shimmering, varnished fields on a bright, frosty dawn;

Tall pine trees reaching towards bleak winter skies;

The forested mountain peak piercing heavy clouds,

Daring them to blanket the earth in soft, misty rain.

 

When I am there, I feel one with the earth,

The river, the trees, the sky.

The farm does not belong to me;

I belong to the farm.

 

I know it is waiting for me when I am far away,

Ready to resume where we left off.

Someday soon , I will wander its glorious fields;

Listening to its tree-line chatter once again;

Interpreting the whispers of its rustling leaves;

Simply savoring the stillness in my soul.

 

 

 

Slán agus beannacht leat!

(Goodbye and blessings)

Irish American Mom

 

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