rewarded.
Evening descends, shadows lengthen
One by one, the human race and dogs
arise and disappear down the long grey pier.
Whose stones entomb the sweat and labour
of men long lost in cemeteries,
Their tomb stones similar to the large
boulders from Dalkey quarry, to make a pier.
O NE M ORNING
A rose ebbing dew from paling petals
In the morning sunlight,
A grey mist hangs over the drooping branches,
Where wee birds are
Beginning to awaken from night’s silence.
Inside the clouded window
A small iron bed suffers the breathing weight
of a baby like figure
He heeds not the song of the morning thrush
Or the smell of the dewy rose.
He feels the soft touch of his mother’s hand
on his perspiring forehead
Then a gentle sigh,
A fluttering tremble
His soul has fled
Far from the morning dew
The rising sun
The singing thrush
The shivering watery leaves.
All pain is gone.
A happy soul takes flight
And the body that crust of clay lies there still
Motionless. .
Overshadowed by the labouring sobs of those
who, treasured his every move
The thin thread separating life from death is shattered
skillfully by the caring hand of a Fatherly Creator.
The young soul slumbers blissfully
in eternal peace....... ,
THE CHAMPION PLOUGHMAN
Soil, he turns in dark brown slices,
Hiding grass of emerald green.
Two horses move, with grace they glide by,
Drills are born in lines so neat.
Each drill, to him, is a strand of gold,
As people stare and follow slowly,
Deep furrows slimy, he then unfolds
Discarding weeds, as if unholy.
Peace and calm around him reigns,
An air of leisure, as he trods,
A master of the sun and rain
Yes king and lord of the dark brown sod.
Hungry birds behind him follow,
Noisy, giddy, as they flap their wings,
Picking, gulping from each hollow,
The wrinkling worms, that twist and cringe.
The ploughman, accurate, keen and silent,
Close is he to Nature’s whims,
Evening shadows, grey, declining,
Across the Vale, the church bell rings.
AREVERIE (1956)
Hedges green, all decked with flowers,
Honey suckle climbing leafy bowers.
Trees abundantly bearing loads
Of leaves, that flutter fly and float.
Skies of blue with dots of cloud,
Illumined by golden sunny showers.
Valleys wide where streamlets flow,
With gurgling sounds so soft and low.
Rivers broad, their ripples shine
And salmon leap in search of fly.
Rosy brambles high and tall
Climbing o’er the garden wall.
The lonely peal of distant waves
Lashing bravely ‘gainst the caves.
Cottage neat, with garden round,
Dotted over with fragrant flowers.
Music sweet sends forth its strain,
To brighten valley, hill and vale.
Fireside homely, poor but rare
To brighten hearts on lonely trail.
Terrier small with two kind eyes
A friend sincere, stern, though kind.
A cat to frighten wandering mice
With furry coat all soft and nice.
This is just a mid-day dream
Which haunts the human mind unseen.
G ENTLE LITTLE ROSEBUD
In a lonely lane,
Shedding forth your odour,
Sweet and fragrant there.
So alike us, humans,
Passing o’er life’s plain,
Youth and love and beauty,
Unblemished, without stain.
Then comes passing raindrops,
Windy afternoons.
The spring of youth has blossomed,
Skies are clear and blue.
Gracefully, you send forth,
Beauty, wet with dew,
Lovely little rosebud
Is now a rose mature.
Evening shadows falling,
Petals dot the green,
Age is creeping o’er you
Good times all have been.
Youth, is gone forever,
Beauty, too, has flown,
Left one cherished memory,
Of a faded rose
SCIOLLAIN CUTTING
( S CIOLLAIN IS G AELIC FOR S EED P OTATOES )
’Twas customary, an expert was invited,
An old lady, a genius in her own right,
Between her finger and her wrinkled palm,
She efficiently manoeuvred a tiny knife,
With handle as worn as her bony knuckles,
Which crackled as she dug the edgy blade
Into the rounded eyeballs of the potatoes.
Like a carver, she scooped and prodded,
Bending now and
Evening descends, shadows lengthen
One by one, the human race and dogs
arise and disappear down the long grey pier.
Whose stones entomb the sweat and labour
of men long lost in cemeteries,
Their tomb stones similar to the large
boulders from Dalkey quarry, to make a pier.
O NE M ORNING
A rose ebbing dew from paling petals
In the morning sunlight,
A grey mist hangs over the drooping branches,
Where wee birds are
Beginning to awaken from night’s silence.
Inside the clouded window
A small iron bed suffers the breathing weight
of a baby like figure
He heeds not the song of the morning thrush
Or the smell of the dewy rose.
He feels the soft touch of his mother’s hand
on his perspiring forehead
Then a gentle sigh,
A fluttering tremble
His soul has fled
Far from the morning dew
The rising sun
The singing thrush
The shivering watery leaves.
All pain is gone.
A happy soul takes flight
And the body that crust of clay lies there still
Motionless. .
Overshadowed by the labouring sobs of those
who, treasured his every move
The thin thread separating life from death is shattered
skillfully by the caring hand of a Fatherly Creator.
The young soul slumbers blissfully
in eternal peace....... ,
THE CHAMPION PLOUGHMAN
Soil, he turns in dark brown slices,
Hiding grass of emerald green.
Two horses move, with grace they glide by,
Drills are born in lines so neat.
Each drill, to him, is a strand of gold,
As people stare and follow slowly,
Deep furrows slimy, he then unfolds
Discarding weeds, as if unholy.
Peace and calm around him reigns,
An air of leisure, as he trods,
A master of the sun and rain
Yes king and lord of the dark brown sod.
Hungry birds behind him follow,
Noisy, giddy, as they flap their wings,
Picking, gulping from each hollow,
The wrinkling worms, that twist and cringe.
The ploughman, accurate, keen and silent,
Close is he to Nature’s whims,
Evening shadows, grey, declining,
Across the Vale, the church bell rings.
AREVERIE (1956)
Hedges green, all decked with flowers,
Honey suckle climbing leafy bowers.
Trees abundantly bearing loads
Of leaves, that flutter fly and float.
Skies of blue with dots of cloud,
Illumined by golden sunny showers.
Valleys wide where streamlets flow,
With gurgling sounds so soft and low.
Rivers broad, their ripples shine
And salmon leap in search of fly.
Rosy brambles high and tall
Climbing o’er the garden wall.
The lonely peal of distant waves
Lashing bravely ‘gainst the caves.
Cottage neat, with garden round,
Dotted over with fragrant flowers.
Music sweet sends forth its strain,
To brighten valley, hill and vale.
Fireside homely, poor but rare
To brighten hearts on lonely trail.
Terrier small with two kind eyes
A friend sincere, stern, though kind.
A cat to frighten wandering mice
With furry coat all soft and nice.
This is just a mid-day dream
Which haunts the human mind unseen.
G ENTLE LITTLE ROSEBUD
In a lonely lane,
Shedding forth your odour,
Sweet and fragrant there.
So alike us, humans,
Passing o’er life’s plain,
Youth and love and beauty,
Unblemished, without stain.
Then comes passing raindrops,
Windy afternoons.
The spring of youth has blossomed,
Skies are clear and blue.
Gracefully, you send forth,
Beauty, wet with dew,
Lovely little rosebud
Is now a rose mature.
Evening shadows falling,
Petals dot the green,
Age is creeping o’er you
Good times all have been.
Youth, is gone forever,
Beauty, too, has flown,
Left one cherished memory,
Of a faded rose
SCIOLLAIN CUTTING
( S CIOLLAIN IS G AELIC FOR S EED P OTATOES )
’Twas customary, an expert was invited,
An old lady, a genius in her own right,
Between her finger and her wrinkled palm,
She efficiently manoeuvred a tiny knife,
With handle as worn as her bony knuckles,
Which crackled as she dug the edgy blade
Into the rounded eyeballs of the potatoes.
Like a carver, she scooped and prodded,
Bending now and
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