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.
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