Were I A Poet

The hungry fox in 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 warm 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.