The Bog

We stand,

here in this sacred place, where a mind

is widened by emptiness, and

no boundaries but the willingness

of the living, breathing, earth 

to bear our oppressive weight.

 

Not a stone in sight

- not even the memory of a stone -

only the brown sods hardening 

in the wind, and the promise of 

a smouldering conversation, as

protection against a harsh future

that has yet to come.

 

I see misted memories of wandering tribes

picking their way by a maze of 

paths only known to them, and the

insistent repetition of the cuckoo

to confuse all that followed.

I hear the curlew’s call

as a song that can only be seen

in the bog pool ripples.

 

This is an inland sea where the wind 

knows no obstacle; meandering by, 

raking the blushing heather, playing

the swaying reeds and feathered cotton.

 

Young trees proclaim their hope, not as

you would plant them, but as they wish,

and I wonder who will survive

to claim this spot, almost laid waste

by greed and arrogance.

 

Now we take only what’s needed 

to warm our hearths, toiling beneath

the burning sun; the distant drone of

an encroaching motorway drowned 

out by the buzz of a solitary bumblebee. 

 

Turning, footing, castl’ing, 

and always with an eye to the sky,

and the west, because it is there

you can see the weather coming, 

as ocean whitecaps echo in 

the white flowered dancing heather.

 

I love this place where the land and the living

grow out of sinking dreams and

yesterdays, where the strongest iron is bent,

where a dream world hides the tribal soul,

only for it to rise once more 

with each and every birthed sun.

©Niall OConnor 2024