Poetry

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AS THE MONTH OF AUGUST IS SLIPPING BY,THE SUN THUS FAR IS A LITTLE
SHY,IN MY BACKYARD FURZE BUSH AWAITS SEPTEMBER TIME FOR BLACKBERR'Y
WILL LOOK FINE,UNTIL THEN IN THEIR PRESENT STEM THEY BE GREEN'Y RED
SEPTEMBER'S SUN WILL MAKE RIPENED BLACK READY TOO PICK
IN THE OTHER COUNTR'Y SIDE,NO BULL AT GATE OVER CLIMB NO WAIT THEN
RUN LIKE THE WIND AS THOUGH IT WERE YOUR TWIN,INTO FIELD'S OF CLOVER FIND,PLENTY OF SPACE WHERE MILE'S UNWIND THEN FREEDOM IS
ITSELF DEFINED,THE BOREEN IS THE BEST WAY BACK A WELL WORN ROAD
IF CATTLE HERD THEN STAND QUIET STILL,A GATE IN THE PATH DROVER

WILL GUIDE THEM IN,WITH A SOUND LIKE HUCKS A HOW.THE HERD DO KNOW

INTO FARMYARD THEN THEY BE HOME AGAIN SO AT AGE 9 BACK IN THE

QUARRY A PLACE TO LIVE THAT LIFE DO GIVE,THE COUNTRY STAY FEW

FEW MILES AWAY,AMEN I PRAY.
Joe.
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