Remember how-when we were young we ran among the golden meadow.
Remember those sweet summer days by the cool burbling brook that ran at the foot of the bottom field.
Remember how-as kids we played-how life was then forever.
How days were blue and the sun shone hot upon our little pink backs.
Remember the red of Burnet moth-that swung and swayed on tall grass tops.
How beautiful heads of Ox-eye daisy danced in the evening breeze.
The bouncing nod of ethereal Hare bells.
The furious buzz of frantic Bees that sought to collect the summer harvest.
The distant sound of clattery train-far across the languid lough.
Remember the skipping flight of Johnny Wren and deadly dive of Hector Hawk !
How we lay-the sun upon our freckled faces-pollen tickling our noses and eyes.
The joyful song of climbing Lark-who seemed to sing from heavens vault.
The strapping horse-with hot sweet breath-who grazed upon the grass and sedge.
The brilliant sparks of fragrant whin-skirting the field amid the hawthorns ranks.
And there among the towering hay-the blackthorn bush-that all were feared to cut !
The cottage stark and white against the polaroid sky-its living thatch dry like tinder-dusty in the hand.
Orange and sandwiches-thick buttery jam-men drowning bottles of stout-the women drinking tea.
The ancient Sycamore-standing in the yard-twisted-hollow and tall-hemp and rubber swing casting its shadowy eye-on the raucous ducks below.
The sleepy dog Buster-old and haggard-stiff and slow.
White hens clucking back and forth-the Rhode Island Cockerel atop his coup-the harem scraching beneath.
Winkles boil on the open fire-the pot black and crusty-the pins at the ready.
An old iron kettle is drawn of the coals-and the hot steaming water is poured on the tea-it froths and spits and stews.
Pictures of days gone by adorn the stony white walls-a clock swings its tarnished brass weight-it chimes on the half and strikes on the hour-day and night-day and night.
This was my childhood-poor in luxury-rich in love.

By Richard.E.Craig