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THE ROBIN

Jim McGovernDear wee robin, dear,
So snug in winter yet full of fear.
In summer green thou art in gear
With squabs three or four so near.
However safe they are to-day
They have enemies in their way
Here, there and everywhere.      Readmore

THE PILOT

Malachy McCullaghDown in the bright green grass I lie
And watch the planes in the clear blue sky,
I’ll be a pilot one day soon
And fly my plane straight up to the moon.The man in the moon will say to me,
Do stop and have a cup of tea,
And all the stars will sparkle by,
For I shall fly so high - so high.One morning I’ll start up my plane,
Fly round the world and back again,
And when I’ve seen all I can see,
I’ll come home to mammy and to tea.      Readmore

THE FOOTBALL MATCH

Michael McAliskeyI
The referee blew the whistle and
The ball was thrown in
The players jumped high for it
And were at it thick and thin.II
Down the field the ball went sailing,
Players striving main and might
But the kick was unavailing for
The umpire signalled wide.III
The forwards all were playing well,
The backs were well-behaved,
Then a sizzling shot was taken
But the goalie quickly saved.IV
‘Twas drawing near the close of play
And near the full time call
When little Dan Quinn, hurrah!
Jumped high to catch the bait.V
He soloed and he dummied,
He raced…     Readmore

SUMMER! SUMMER!

John NugentSummer! Summer!
The call of the plover!
When the lark cries
And Spring dies,
O Summer! Summer!Summer ways are here again,
When day lives till after 10 p.m.
While the honey bees work
And the hedge-sparrows chirp,
O Summer! Summer!Summer days, school is o’er,
September back to chore,
Sea waves roar,
“Golden Summer is no more”,
O Summer! Summer!     Readmore

SPRING?

R DoyleSleek, svelte, and long, the shimmers of sun
Slip and steal through the branches.
And the sky carries clouds that float and run
Propelled and pummelled by a young April breeze.A ripple of shiver creases the lake
Where the water bird settles,
And bright green fields sound the song
Of a new birth - promising, fruitful and young.And an old world listens
And understands - but does not feel.     Readmore

SPACE AGE

Joe McLoughlinI’m sure you’ve heard or read about,
The satellites in space,
How Russia and the United States
Are in the rocket race.To hear them talk it won’t be long,
The moon they will conquer soon,
And then what next will man attempt,
If he should reach that moon?Russia leads so far,
By their flights towards the moon,
And according to Khruschev,
They’ll be up again soon.If they do go up again,
Who’ll follow them but Colonel Glenn ?
And if he does he’ll be the toast,
Of more than American space men.      Readmore

FISHING

Eugene HughesUp the stream,
With rod and tackle,
To fish for bream,
Goes Bobby Mackle.Quickly throwing out the bait
He leisurely sits in wait,
For some unwary bream,
To break the placidness of the stream.The captured fish starts to plunge about
Alas, he’ll never get it out,
The fish it swims away,
But he says there’ll be another day.      Readmore

ESCAPE

R DoyleGrey smoke, blue grass,
A lift of wind,
Sky of brass.
In a long slope
Comes down a bird,
Alert, soft-falling
Down to earth in a spiral.Sharp eyes watching,
Dull heart longing,
Human heart lifting
In vain desire to imitate;
To be away, far separated,
Looking down
From some spire of height.     Readmore

TO COLONEL GLENN


John HannaO Colonel Glenn, you hero so bold
Remember this as now you’re told.
Next time you pass high over head
Think of me and my buzzing head
If you were here you’d quake and shake,
So drop a bomb just for my sake.I’d like to shout, I’d like to sing,
I’d like to dance out in a ring.
But I’m afraid I have to hurry,
In case the teacher’s in a flurry.
Still I’m made to laugh when I think of you
Out in orbit in the blue.      Readmore

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Home arrow 1963 arrow Poems arrow ON A SALT MARSH IN DECEMBER
ON A SALT MARSH IN DECEMBER PDF Print E-mail
Written by Raymond Doyle

Grey geese calling
From skies neutral in shade,
Mud flats reflecting
The dull failing light of shortening days;

Gun on shoulder, capped in tweed,
Knee rubbers slashing, struggling up
Slippery mud slopes, falling
But feeling the fun of it,
In the quest of game.

A site sure to be good
He eases himself down on his knees
And awaits the honk of geese.
He stirs and shifts as stiffening limbs
Cause pain and cold drives in,
But takes comfort in the thought of
The Great Out Doors” and “The Health of it”.

From panning the sky his neck
Is stiff and his eyes are watery
From a wincing wind before he hears
That sought for sound.

With winged pattern they crease the sky
In majestic formation flying high.
With rhythmic movement quick
The hunter’s barrel swings
To a point where sight,
And eye and bird are one.

The shot rings clear on the frosty air
And a bundle of feathers
In a limp fall
Plummets to the mud.

With the thrill and race of success
In his blood the hunter, in a
Slippery scramble, heads for the spot.

Breasting the air in proud flight once,
Now, in a muddy ripple it lies
At a clumsy angle
Pathetically torn and flecked with red.

But with triumphant grasp
And careless ease the man
Swings the shapeless feathery thing
Until, with legs tied, it hangs
Limply swinging from his side.

Across the mud flats birds are calling
In a mournful dirge rising and falling,
While from a grey sky the cold dying sun
Hastens homewards a man and his gun.

 

Last Updated ( Tuesday, 27 November 2007 )
 
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