At the Foothills of Mushera the Winter days are cold <br />And the old mountain cloaked in fog a strange sight to behold <br />I felled pine trees there years ago when snow was on the ground <br />It surely was a hard old way for to earn one's living pound <br /> <br />But Spring brought joy to Mushera the birds sang all the day <br />And the hawthorn trees looked lovely in their white blooms of the May <br />And the cooing of the woodpigeons a pleasant sound to hear <br />And everywhere looked lush and green in the greenest time of year. <br /> <br />Above the heath and bracken the male brown lark did fly <br />And carolling whilst ascending like a small speck in the sky <br />Cloaked by a tuft of heather her speckled eggs warm beneath her breast <br />His silent female partner was sitting in her nest. <br /> <br />In January old Mushera wears his white hat of snow <br />In the woodland by his Foothills some two decades ago <br />I felled pine and spruce trees in the cold wind and rain <br />Those days for me long over but the memories of them with me remain.<br /><br />Francis Duggan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-the-foothills-of-mushera/
