the bogland

In the hush of the bogland, I stand,
A reed bent by gales, yet unbroken.
The peat underfoot, a keeper of secrets,
Echoes my own—of loss and of yearning.

Beneath the moon's pale watch, I tread,
Through fields of ghostly heather and fallen stars.
Each step, a silent echo of her laughter,
A longing for the warmth once graced my hearth.

I've toiled the soil, a penance and a prayer,
Its clods resist, like the sorrows I've buried.
The furrows I've turned, like wounds on the land,
Bleed stories of love lost and dreams deferred.

The lark's song, a balm for the weary soul,
Soothes the scars of battles fought within.
It sings of struggles, like mine—silent and deep,
Of hope, a flickering flame in the cavern of my heart.

I've felt the city's pulse, its indifferent thrum,
But the land's embrace is a mother's touch, tender.
My hands, calloused and stained, map my toils—
Of harvests reaped and the hunger that gnaws still.

In the pub's golden light, stories flow like ale,
Laughter and lament, as potent as the land's spirit.
We speak of peace, a delicate truce
In a garden where joy and sorrow drink from the same well.

And when the ceilidh's rhythm stirs our blood,
We dance, a defiance against the relentless tide.
Our steps, the beat of the heart, the pulse of the rain,
Our spirit, the roar of the sea, the whisper of the wind.

So here, in the hush of the bogland, I stand,
A son of Ireland, sculpted by her trials.
The struggles I've borne, the dreams I weave,
Are threads in the tapestry of this emerald isle.