May looks her last on fruit trees, flowers and all:
June’s gazing o’er the garden-orchard wall,
Rain softly falls. Amorously the breeze
Kisses red lips of blooming apple trees.

A rag on every bush this breeze may be,
But sweeter blushes he will never see.
The rain drops cease. Still an unceasing shower
Of bird made music rains on tree and flower.

The sun lights up the orchard. What a strange,
Swift transmutation! all the raindrops change
To charming jewels, hung from every bough
And flower.  Prodigal is nature now.

While blend the hum of bees, the wind’s low croon,
The songs of many birds, I wait for June;
And yet a sigh escapes me as the day
Draws to a close – a sigh for passing May.

MICHAEL MULLIN, ‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS,
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross. Co. Tyrone.