John McCullagh June 18, 2004
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June switches back our thoughts to childhood days – that joyous period of our lives when everything is idealised and appears to us now as grown-ups a fairyland tinged with a roseate hue. 


It recalls balmy breezes with the scent of greening grasses and wild flowers and herbs.

 The gardens are resplendent with roses – crimson and white, golden and pale pink, while the hedgerows flaunt the hawthorn blossom which covers the branches with a gown of glorious white delicately tipped with pink and making the air fragrant with perfume.

 
In June the countryside re-echoes with the bleating of lambs, answered with the ba-aing of their soft-voiced mothers; the birds sing from dawn to dusk.  God’s sunshine on land and sea – every good gift given to us to increase our happiness.  June brings from the dim past a perfect day, when sitting in the shade of a sycamore tree, I heard the sweet song of the lark, soaring aloft, filling the heavens with his wonderful melody.

How eagerly I have watched his flight into the azure blue and then his descent into the luscious meadow.  What hours I filled trying to locate the spot where he was hidden so that I might be the proud possessor of a lark’s nest.