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