The Sheepdog Running

 From Meath to Mayo. The Sheepdog Running. Seamus, Bill and Missie in the valley.


A flash of black and white against the grey-green,

She clears the low stone wall with steady grace,

The swiftest shadow the hills have seen,

With low-slung shoulders and a lowered face.

She balances upon the cold brown stone,

And watches with a calm but wary eye,

Content to sit and guard the flock alone,

Until a whistle echoes the valley sky.

Down she leaps and flies through the heather,

With freedom that she doesn't know we envy,

Though paws grow slow in the biting weather,

And soon a pup will take her place completely.

Through the valley depths she takes her flight,

Her coat a banner streaming in the gale,

She runs against the wind with all her might,

A streak of silver down the stony vale.

We all need our sabbath, girl, we all need our rest,

As shadows lengthen on the valley floor,

You’ve given to these hills your very best,

And ran until your ancient paws were sore.

But can you bear to watch the young one take your place?

To sit upon the stone and let him run?

While memory holds the phantom of your chase,

Beneath the fading of the sun.

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