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,
(Goodbye and blessings)
Irish American Mom