‘Twas harvest time. A robin small
Perched on top twig of ash tree tall
Outside our door. For days we heard
The broadcast of the little bird.
It sang thro mist. It sang thro rain
And in the sun it sang again,
Upgazing at it, perched so high
Silhouetted against the sky.
We thought it was a hopeful sign
That soon the weather would be fine,
Our thoughts were of corn beaten flat.
Its thoughts were of – I don’t know what.
The whole week long, day after day
It sang its song and said its say.
The rain went past, the mist went past,
The sun shone in clear skies at last.
And now when safe is all the corn
To robin, thanks let us return
For all the Aves offered up
To cheer us from the ash tree top.
Lets not forget while stacks we rope
The little harbinger of hope
That did its very best to cheer
When hopes were low and skies were drear.
MICHAEL MULLIN, ‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’,
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Tyrone.