Comments about Matt Mooney
Scents of the Summer, incense to his senses,
The boy walks barefoot most of the way.
By hills of furze bushes above the soft bog,
Though ever so slowly the river flows free
Through flower beds of bright yellow wild iris
Where the black water hens hide every day.
In meadows the cowslips all are in bloom
But he has to hurry on fast to his school;