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
Erris Poetry 