I roam across these broad green fields.
I bridge the rivers with my boots.
I climb the hills and up the slopes.
I was made in Mourne with high high hopes.
Now, far away in further fields I always turn my head and feel that someone there is calling me.
For I was made in Mourne.
This is my home.
Rain water, sky, white clouds above.
The place I miss,the place I love.
The seashore, trees and rocking boats.
I was born in Mourne into a winter coat.
And all the seasons turn and sing.
A carousel,revealing rings.
Through stubble,crops and lambs I see.
I was made in Mourne under the hawthorne tree.
Mourne poem by Randall Stephen Hall©️
For anyone proud to be Made in Mourne.