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On Hearing A Blackbird

Posted Monday 11th January 2010 at 00:47 by Francis Duggan
The unmistakeable voice of the blackbird his song is a song that I know
In Spring his kindred birds sing on the hedgerows in the fields where Finnow waters flow
By Millstreet Town to the Blackwater far north of here and far away
When I was younger and fitter and stronger the years have left me looking gray
Each time I hear a blackbird singing in fancy I am back again
In Spring in the lush fields of Duhallow covered in their wildflowers after rain
I've little to show for my travels I cannot boast of financial gain
But fond memories of the the old homefields with me 'til I die will remain
Each time I hear a blackbird singing I hear the babble of the rill
Flow by the hedgerows to the river from the field at the foot of the hill,
Amazing how the song of a bird jogs the memory and takes us to the distant past
But the past it has gone forever and only the memories do last
Of what was and never more can be of the past that forever has gone
And only our great lust for living is what helps us for to keep on keeping on.
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