• Michael Mullins
  • Michael "The Bard" Mullin
  • "The Bard of Foremass"
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    The Sleepy Valley in July

    I walk the sleepy valley; while the dew
    Like sleep on weary eyelids, softly falls.
    There is no sound – save corncrakes calling to
    Corncrakes that, echo-like, repeat the calls.

    The day-god sinking to repose calls home
    His truant beams, that fain would linger on;
    But they must go to gild yon western dome,
    And limn the east with glories of the dawn.

    The blue peat smoke trails lazily away
    O’er trees and fields from lime-washed chimney tops.
    Slow moving farmers placidly survey
    Their light green corn, dark green potato crops.

    Fat, dull-eyed cattle stretched upon the grass
    Seem almost too content to ruminate;
    They hardly notice me as on I pass,
    Picking my steps, through hoof-tracks, to the gate.

    And here’s the river; crooning a hush song
    To sleepy meadows – like a mother fond
    Lulling her babe. Ah! who for worlds would long
    The sleepy valley’s cradling hills beyond?

    Michael Mullin
    ‘The Bard of Foremass’

    Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

    Limn – to paint