THROUGH A GLASS BRIGHTLY Feet crunching in the gravel, the first few steps would be past yew trees and rows of raspberry bushes on one side, and rhododendrons, wild roses, lilacs and God knows what flower his mother Had dreamt up, on the other. It was her lasting passion. That day would be fine, probably a Sunday in late June before the lane was tarmacadamed. Then past the entrance (more flowers) and onto the road, turning right. The grove would be to the left --it's gone now, his father reclaimed it-- the young trees (were they pines?) outrageously perfuming the breeze, and the cows, taking refuge from the heat, would stupidly stare at him. There would be wild strawberries under the milkstand, and if he looked up, There were more lilacs under the telegraph wires. Below the grove was the rushy field (even the rushes are gone) and on the other side of the road, the fallow field where he and his brothers would play hurling on summer evenings, sometimes in the rain-- like the fanatics they would never be again. The lighter shade of grass marked their pitch, three jackets and a shirt made the goalposts and hacked branches of trees the hurls. The ball was usually for real. In the distance beyond that, a sleeping Annagh Hill, the colour of raspberry juice, and Croghan Kinsella, mountain of the legendary gold. A few yards more and he'd be flanked by briars, the long stalks green and strong, invading the road. Then to the bridge, once swept away by a flood which carried a man who survived to wear a bump like a boulder on his forehead. The river, calm but strong (now it's calm and feeble, widened to save crops from floodwaters) would show off trout doing dazzling turns on fins, or high jumps for insects under the cluster of tall, benign oaks. Then he'd end his voyage, pushing in the gate to the two-roomed cottage where the old couple lived in a shade of former glory, wading his way through guinea hens, and while the dog barked and bared his teeth, they would set tea and cakes, and he would be a prince, listening to the affairs of the realm. -- Philip Casey, Wexford-born poet, living in Dublin