Bog

The silver slits ten thousand years
Of sun-soaked sod
To fuel the fires of Ireland.
Her sons, now warm, will tell the tale
Of ancients weaned on bog and field.
The golden lines etched clear through time
With deluge and sun,
Forgotten climes.
Sweet heather sits, alerting not
The flesh beneath that quietly rots.
She sets the seeds of fires unknown
And hoards of future children's warm.
Maps sharp unmarked by slean or hand
Send curdles creeping up the spine
Of children screeching, thinking back
On men with pouches scything slack
Leading old asses plodding heavy,
Laden down with sods muck healthy.
Soft bouncy briar-weed under foot
Quick-steps a pioneer on
Until we re dancing on this labour patch
That's fuelled the fire between us and land.
For immemorial time
We slice fire juices from this trampoline
Of flora, flirting with our toes
Enchanting us to pause
A while..
And chase the dream behind a smile.