THE GREEN, GREEN GRASS OF HOME 

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One of my favourite places of all time, as a young boy, was to play among the green meadows that spread out from the banks of the River Braid, or as we always knew it, the 'Moat'. I paid those green meadows a visit a few years ago as I wandered around my homeland thinking to myself that there's nothing quite like the green, green grass of home.
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There is something about a summer meadow with its mixture of yellow buttercups and white daisies bursting through the green lush carpet of grass. And can there be anything more that speaks of summer than a freshly cut field of hay. Sure while back home in Northern Ireland a few years back, the farmers were going crazy getting the hay cut and baled and brought home into the barn before the hot sunny weather changed and the rain returned.  It's always a short window.
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As the poet and philosopher John O'Donohue once wrote, "Nothing can keep grass down. Its desire endures, holding itself focused to enter the most minuscule crevice and begin to climb to the high light. Gravity cannot keep it down; the call of light is always stronger."