Sunday, February 8, 2015

In a Bog Hole

The chill scenery of an Irish bog in Winter is unexpectedly moving. When the sky's artic colouring appears, reflected in a bog hole, and I see myself  in pristine sharpness, I am suddenly engulfed in melancholia.


laid out on water;
preserved to sharpness in  the December chill.

Fluid mosaic of sky and cloud,
Michael shivers like a flag.

Evening, extinguishing the bog cotton,
will find him alone,

treading visions  in this bog hole’s bottomless black.

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