With the hedgerows overgrown;
The fields each side are still carefully spaced,
By ancient drywall stones.
The Fairy Mound, is not disturbed –
Old suspicions linger here,
But the cattle and the crops have gone,
And the people disappeared.
Old cart tracks, I can see;
From when farmers drove on market day,
Down to the town of Skibbereen.
And where I on rainy mornings,
Splashed reluctantly to school;
The first road I ever travelled –
Of the many later I would choose.
Unused to been disturbed ;
Their dark eyes watch my progress –
Recording every move.
Then they rise and fly off easterly,
To report what they have seen,
Perhaps to ghosts, that once walked here?
Or a far more higher being?
Reluctant to go on;
There is a special grief in all returnings,
When the loved ones have all gone.