Morning misted grass
Velvet brushed green
Beckons, cries out
For a child,
Shoe-less and wild.
Race across bare grass
With bare feet
Unfettered and free.
Hedge to stone wall,
Run and invite all
Follow, come, join...
Weeping eyes reply,
Cannot run, sadly sigh...
Travel ahead and discover
Fields touched by many.
Through golden gorse,
Beneath rowan trees,
Still, but for wren and sparrow
hawks.
Come, follow...
There is yet another
Field awaiting,
Weeping eyes.
By Robert Sheridan
Can you imagine walking along this road? Feeling the mist in the air?
This is Ireland.
This was first published back in 2023 following hand surgery. Hand healed, but is at only 80% of it former use.
