‘The Tree At The Foot Of Our Garden’.
© Joe Canning 2018. All Rights Reserved.
There’s a tree at the foot of our garden,
Happy children play round it all day,
The girls use the foxgloves as thimbles,
The boys write their names in the clay.
Young Bridget shouts; “Look at me Grandpa!”
As she sails to and fro on her swing,
The squirrel looks on in amusement,
And the wild birds soar high on the wing.
The vixen peeps over the sharp thorny hedge,
As she forages food for her young,
The crafty old magpie seeks bright shiny things,
To hoard in his nest in the Haw.
Their mother she beckons them all to come in,
To butter and spuds on the table,
And father gives thanks to the good Lord above,
For the bounty his love has enabled.
But when midnight comes and the moon it is full,
It’s off to their playground I go,
To share a wee dram at the base of their tree,
With my good friend, old leprechaun, Joe.
He rattles off yarns of the centuries gone,
And I share with him tales of my day,
And then when the dawning peeps over the hill,
In the dewdrops he just fades away.
But I dare not speak of encounters with Joe,
For some folk might think me insane,
So I slip off to bed with a dizzying head,
‘Til the moon it is full once again.