Making Hay

Stooks of hay assembled

In a field that we called ‘Yard’

My mother’s place in Erris long ago

They look like little pyramids

In Egypt’s desert sand

Or then again

The Reek beside Clew Bay

 

I wonder what year it was

What sunny day back then

When saving hay preoccupied the mind

I remember conversations

When I was but a child

Did you save your hay?

Thank God the weather’s kind

 

Those days are gone

The stooks are gone

The Irish language too

My mother’s tongue when she was young

She loved to have her say

 

And I her son

I was led on to Latin and to Greek

But not a word of Irish in my soul

But I didn’t lose that sense of place

I didn’t lose my people

And if Mayo win the Sam

We’re making hay!

 

Brian Fahy

19 August 2021

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