The Boggeragh mountains old as time wear their winter hats of snow <br />And through quiet lands of Duhallow the old Blackwater flow <br />The leafless grove bereft of birdsong and bare looking the hedgerow <br />And from the cold north countries the icy cold winds blow. <br /> <br />In cowshed in the farmyard the cows are bellowing for hay <br />Their appetites much keener on a frosty winter's day <br />And farmer feeling worried his cow fodder supply low <br />And two months yet or maybe more till grass commence to grow. <br /> <br />In bare fields the migrant redwings they chirp but never sing <br />They sing their songs in their northern homes in mountain woods in Spring <br />And robins, thrushes and blackbirds by the back door compete <br />For after dinner scraps thrown out by housewife, bread crumbs and morsels of meat. <br /> <br />I could tell of Springtime in Duhallow from early april on <br />The nesting birds are singing and winter's coldness gone <br />And grass growth near it's peak time and frogs croak in the drain <br />The memory of such beauty a whole lifetime remain. <br /> <br />But it's Duhallow in mid january that I speak of today <br />When Boggeragh peaks are snow capped and frosty fields are gray <br />And rook with feathers fluffed against the cold caws on bare elm bough <br />For cold winter of snow, hail and storm is in Duhallow now. <br /> <br />Through the bare fields of Duhallow Blackwater flow bank high <br />And the sun can't seem to penetrate through the heavily clouded sky <br />And the migrant redwing thrushes they chirp but never sing <br />And ten long weeks or maybe more before the blooms of spring.<br /><br />Francis Duggan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/duhallow-in-mid-january/