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There’s a seat by the wayside in Lucan Demesne,
Where I rest in sunshine and shelter in rain,
The river going by sometimes murmurs my name,
Bids me be easy, good to see you again.
There’s an oak with its leaves leaning over the flow,
Roots deep in memories of Lucan long ago,
Of labourers who toiled in the heat and the snow,
Children who played where the red poppies grow.
Is that a heron standing guard by the weir,
Watchful and wary of all that come near,
Or the ghost of a maiden still shedding a tear,
For a lover who died a Sarsfield volunteer.
The meadow is sprinkled with flowers of the wild,
A young mother picks a bouquet for a child,
As they walked by my seat the little one smiled,
Touch of an angel, an old heart beguiled.
A leaping grey squirrel sets the branch swinging,
In the reeds by the water soft breezes are singing,
A flight of wild duck bound homeward are winging,
In the evening distance church bells faintly ringing.
Raindripping sunshining earthsmelling space,
The valley holds all in its leafy embrace,
We passed without words but you had a kind face,
Then you too were a part of this beautiful place.
By Paddy Mulhern
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