The sun rose to its height
In a midsummer sky.
I wired up my walking boots,
Stout brave shoes
Which laughed at stubble,
And splashed through iron brown streams
In their stride.
I took up my can
Of thick, strong, red brown tay,
Sweet ,
With white sugar, not brown
And a dash of milk.
Together we would step once more
Across the dams of my youth,
Slosh through fresh, mountain streams,
Creep warily around bovine bottoms
Caked in excrement,
And walk the stubble filled fields
Empty now of hay,
And my people.
Generations of shirt sleeved spirits
Leaning on their rakes and forks
Sweating in the sunshine
Would rejoice in the sight of me,
With the tay.
erhaps for the last time,
I'll sit amongst the memories
And sip my lukewarm brew,
Communing with my dead,
reparing myself
For that hollow moment
When clay meets wood.
When all I will have
Are memories
And sweet red tay.
