July In Lisnaboy

The sun it is hidden behind clouds of gray
And the pleasant aroma of grass mown for silage or hay
Comes wafting to me in the afternoon breeze
That rustles in the leaves of the deciduous trees

Dark clouds above the Boggeraghs tell rain is not far away
In Duhallow it will not be a good hay making day
The swallows chasing flying insects low to the grass fly
On an overcast mid Summer's day in July

Where some of my first lessons of Nature i used to enjoy
In the Summer meadows of old Lisnaboy
The past becomes the present when one does visualize
Through Seasons of  living  i have come to realize

But in reality this more than fifty years ago
And time since then it has become my foe
But memories of what was in me does remain
Of the old fields i loved i may not see again.