I find this to be particularly true of bog holes. The spare beauty of the landscapes, the bleakness of winter skies in Ireland, the suggestion, (since they tend to be oblong, rectangular), of an ethereal grave. If I stop to look, I'm likely to find myself absorbed into melancholic thoughts.
Bog
Hole
Mute
Michael laid out on water
shivers
like a flag.
Fissures
of sky rake him,
his
mouth worms.
Night,
extinguishing the bog cotton,
finds
him alone
treading
visions,
dressed
in bottomless black.
Detail from painting by Elaine Leigh.
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