Poem about West Head

This little village, I love it still

The weather is cold because I live on a hill.

When spring arrives, how sweet the air,

I love it more, than everywhere.

In early May, mayflowers bring,

in early June, birds come to sing.

Then July, yes, we have our fog,

birds nesting still on the bakeapple bog.

In August, pink clover in the fields,

beet greens from the garden yields.

September, to me, beats them all,

October cool, you're nearing fall.

November with its frosty nights,

make cranberries red and delicious ripe.

December with its early snow,

fishermen after lobsters go.

The other months are not so good,

we pack our sheds with dry hardwood.

And take it easy and keep the animals feed,

this story's end about West Head.

Short Stories and Poems / From a Fisherman's Heart / Eugene R. Roache

Bought this book in January 2008 in the drugstore in Lockeport. At this time I hadn't been in West Head and  I didn' t guess to own one day land on this Peninsula. Today I read in the book,  Eugene Roache lived at the end of West Head. Not far from me.