My Past I Seem To Cling To

The fields around my old home were always lush and green
And in spring primroses, bluebells and snowdrops by the hedge near the bohreen
Were blooming at their loveliest in the warm showers of May
But that was many years ago and that was far away.

I seem to cling to the past or does the past cling to me?
And of the memories of what was till death we won't be free
The male chaffinch with the pink breast who sang on the alder tree
When spring is in the distant wood sings in my memory.

The fields around my old home that I like to recall
When seen again with fresh eyes may not look that green at all
The future is uncertain and the past with us remain
And the fellow who is ageing longs to be young again.

Of the places we grew up in until death we won't be free
And my past I seem to cling to or does my past cling to me?
And if I return to the old fields I might face the reality
That what I thought was beautiful not all I made it out to be.