I walk among my stooks as day declines,
The skies (my almanack) for weather signs
I read. Though saddened by foreboding storms,
My heart is gladdened by the sunset charms.

As sunset dims a steams’s song – silver notes –
Through the grand symphony of silence floats,
And floating fades. The harvest moon appears,
Dimming with her bright lamp more distant spheres.

The wind stirs gently in the uncut  corn;
That rustles softly, waiting to be shorn.
The wind stirs gently: in its rustling sound
There’s something inexplicably profound.

This is a lone walk: yet I find a grace
In the calm time and in the solemn place.
That suits my mood.  The moon and stars ashine
Mirror the beauty of the Face Divine.

This walk among the stooks gives me more joy
Than games or pastimes that too quickly cloy.
And as I wander home my doubts grow dim
Before the brighter light of Faith in Him.

MICHAEL MULLIN ‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.
Sent to The Irish Independent, Dublin
And the Cork Weekly Examiner
August 23 1956
Won 10/- in Cork