Were I A Poet

The hungry fox on the high field was barking And where heron fished the river trickled slow And the moon shone on the old fields of Duhallow And the wind blew chill 'twas cold enough to snow. On cypress by the house the dunnock huddled As he slept on low branch with head tucked beneath his wing With food quite scarce he went to bed half hungry Perhaps his dreams were of a warmer Spring. How come poets often write of flowers and roses Of songs of birds and buzz of summer bees? Were I a poet I'd write of windswept valleys And magpies chattering on the leafless trees Were I a poet I'd write of bleak December In Caherbarnagh and the Paps of Shrone Before the Spring there has to be a Winter And cold, wet and windy winters I have known. How come when some poets write of Spring they ignore Mother Nature And their invisible Gods they acclaim? Were I a poet I'd write of my green Goddess Almighty Mother Nature is her name. Were I a poet I'd write of Sliabh Luachra and Duhallow And the mountains and the valleys far away And the elders of my childhood who inspired me And I'd write how I remember them today. How come some poets only write of upper class types? Sometimes I feel they leave their kindred down Were I a poet I'd write about the unsung Like some people I once knew in Millstreet Town. Were I a poet I'd write of the Cork and Kerry border The fields of Ballydaly and Rathmore And I'd write about historical Sliabh Luachra Where great poets and musicians lived before. Were I a poet to some I would write different Perhaps the World through different eyes we see And were I a poet now that is wishful thinking For a poet I know that I will never be.