In Ballyegan Bog the cuckoo’s tune
has changed to mark the turning of the year.
Through summer’s haze the lark sings loud and clear
and soars above the dancing ceannabhán.
Where lines of neat turf-tepees strut and seem
to mock neglected neighbours with disdain,
sad strips of black spaghetti wait in vain
for willing hands. The bog-land trampoline
beneath my feet springs back as I march on,
remembering those summer days long gone
when life was sweet as heather-scented air
and feet were bare and fleet as children’s are,
when time endured and even work was play
and skylarks sang the live-long, lark-song day.
Click on the author's byline for bio and list of other works published by Pencil Stubs Online.
This issue appears in the ezine at www.pencilstubs.com and also in the blog www.pencilstubs.net with the capability of adding comments at the latter.