Of years it has been at least six with a score
Since i climbed on Clara above Claramore
On a chilly but dry mid November sunday
Behind the gray clouds the sun hidden away
The fields of Duhallow and Sliabh Luachra as ever looked green
I retain the memories of the beauty i've seen
When i was younger in my very late thirties though then past my prime
Memory can take us far back the Seasons of time
But time that does not wait for anyone did not wait for me
And all i have left are memories of what used to be
The hair on my balding head is silver gray
But Clara i'm sure would not have aged a day
Of the hill i often climbed above Claramore
In sky miles far north of this southern shore.
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