When I began my track of green
Two horses pulled a harrow
Since them days I'm in between
Despite my lane being narrow.

When upon me, you are found
Where power poles seldom travel
They'll say I thrive on stoney ground
With potholes and no gravel.

In April/June cow parsley grows
Up high beyond my level
In either ditch, hill water flows
With harmony they revel.

Sometimes when I pass a gate
Where sunlight hits in patches
Pre balding always is my fate
Bare spots expose my thatches.

I wind along like Patrick's snake
Past farm yards prim and proper
Sometimes I smell the morning bake
But I can's stop till supper.

I hear donkey's, dogs and hens
Bray barking and brood clucking
Often sheep enclosed in pens
Or pigs in mud and mucking.

Though my crease is never split
It's often greased and oily
Those leaky sumps and axle grit
From farmer Pat O'Reilly.

From up above I'm rarely seen
When passing under bridges
But rest assured I'm evergreen
A home to ants and midges.

There is no road without a bend
It's here they make a wasteland
Our Emerald Isle is but pretend
Our brooks a septic mace brand.

But I digress, I must move on
And wait beside that junction
Many the likes of me have gone
But I still have compunction.

I went to see if it was better
On the far side of the hill
But no its not and even tattier
What's there’s the same old drill.

I'm Median Green and center-ist
I'm country and I'm clean
So keep your townie offal list
It's not for me to glean.


ps..



The green line of grass on the
centre of a road by Courtney
Atkinson's farm in Mallow Ireland
talks about its origins and destiny
and what happens in between
in a day of its life.