As an ageing migrant from there i live far away
In the flat coastal lands of the Yangery
A migrant is the best i can wish to be
Far south of where the dark Blackwater flow
In the fields of the rook and the silver back crow
Time it has made an old fellow of me
And the past only remain as a memory
Of the what was in the long ago
Long before time did become my foe
Age comes to everyone so very fast
And memories are all that migrants do have of their past
In the old rushy fields near the Town of Millstreet
Where the Cails from Kippagh and the Finnow does meet
The soft fluting of the curlew i may never more hear
In the stillness of the evening in the Spring of the year
Memories are all i have of days long gone
And time on my life ever keeps ticking on
But the now is all that does matter as a truism remain
The meaning in this it's own self does explain.
No comments:
Post a Comment