• Michael Mullins
  • Michael "The Bard" Mullin
  • "The Bard of Foremass"
  • Poem Banner
    Death of an August Day

    An August day is on its deathbed. Trees
    Stand silent round, like mourners hushed in prayer.
    No birds sing in the branches, and no breeze
    Harps on them.  Heaven’s tears fall softly there.

              All work has ceased, and every tongue is dumb;
    Fields, hills, and woods seem listening – intent,
    Expectant, reverent, subdued – for some
    Tremendous news or wonderful event.

    Sweeps a lone curlew down from a far hill,
    Across the plain, and with its plaintive cry
    It stabs the silence.  All again is still –
    No other sound – while Day sinks down to die.

    The glowing sun low in the distant west
    Illumes the deathbed with long golden rays:
    Ere he withdraws, one last fond kiss is prest
    Upon Day’s dark’ning brow – one last fond gaze.

    The sun, now veiled in draperies of mist,
    Makes all the west a rare magnificence
    Of azure, silver, gold, and amethyst –
    A crown of glory – dead Day’s recompense.

    Michael Mullin
    ‘The Bard of Foremass’
    Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.