if this had been shallow
sandy land near to the
sea or river meadow
meandering seaward
then I would have been
blinded by soil and dust
set free by this wind storm
but walking as I was along
the bog black certainty of
Mayo grounded in a thousand
years of rain and rotting trees
only wisps of water flew up
and twirled before my eyes
dancing in a jig jag swirl
before landing on my trousered
boots as spume a million miles
from sea O what a day it was
when faint hearts by the hearths
ne’er strayed and madmen screamed
and whimpered in their cells dying
to be set free to fly with the geese
returning to the arctic wilds as spring
hit our shores and black brown loughs
like the hair of Deirdre blowing forth
blowing back in this relentless
Atlantic fury I called her to my
side for company as we set up on
the mountain in faith that somewhere
in a cwm or crannóg our sheep would
resting be merged into the bleak
black granite as she and me walked
out to seek our future and our wealth
upon this meagre ground where God
and Cromwell left us and no-one
can now take from us, old Deirdre
and me
A very strong poem Peter written by a strong man as one must be to live in your land and survive the strife set upon from both inside and out. Good write.
