May be one would even call it an Indian summer…It was yesterday afternoon that I was wandering somewhere between Moinín na Ruaige and the back of Inis Meáin. A lovely spot I actually had not been before. While I was going my way on the crooked boreens with flowering banks on both sides I was reflecting on the season.
Actually it is some weeks already that we feel the lovely and comforting warmth of the sun during many hours of the day. Sometimes I feel her strength even so strong that I desperately look for some shade which is obviously very scarce here. But … no complaints, on the contrary, it is fine. And it is just lovely feeling the thick walls of the cottages even being saturated by the warmth of the sun…
I suppose it was just before the heat wave I heard the cuckoo singing its song every day. From that time on though I missed its clear and far bearing tune. Just as every other year it must have been its time now to set off for Africa to spend the winter. What I missed dearly, I realise only now, was the sparkling freshness of the bird’s voice. I understand it is the quality of spring what it represents and I wanted to keep it.
As the movement of nature is everlasting, summer came and goes on as well. Looking at various grasses along the banks of the stone walls I was walking between, I noticed the heavily laden top with a weak haulm. And so are heavy grains in top of barley plants waving slowly in the little fields.
The cuckoo brings the quality of spring in the sheerness of its pitch. With its call summer is announced.
The sun offers warmth and transforms the ears of corn into gold: fruits of summer have come into completion.
Slán go fóill,
Elisabeth from Inis Meáin