Abandoned Fields

We are bound across the quaking bog

By the mauve purgatory of heathers

And the dry stone-wall weathering

Of stonechats grinding out of fog.

Bound across all knowable time

By the fidgeting of rushes

Bearding the gaping sphagnum pool, the luscious

Fruit of the neglected crime.

I too fear the land

And its unyielding womb,

Dread it like the accursed tomb

Of a god that abandoned.

I think I primarily had in mind the Ceide Fields when I wrote this (a short piece of mine on this extraordinary archeological site here).  This is one from my unpublishable poem series which includes Elm Leaves, Tritych, Compassion, and I like the Way a Hand.