Bog Men!

Bogland
We have no prairies
To slice a big sun at evening—
Everywhere the eye concedes to
Encroaching horizon,
Is wooed into the cyclops’ eye
Of a tarn. Our unfenced country
Is bog that keeps crusting
Between the sights of the sun.
They’ve taken the skeleton
Of the Great Irish Elk
Out of the peat, set it up
An astounding crate full of air.
Butter sunk under
More than a hundred years
Was recovered salty and white.
The ground itself is kind, black butter
Melting and opening underfoot,
Missing its last definition
By millions of years.
They’ll never dig coal here,
Only the waterlogged trunks
Of great firs, soft as pulp.
Our pioneers keep striking
Inwards and downwards,
Every layer they strip
Seems camped on before.
The bogholes might be Atlantic seepage.
The wet centre is bottomless.
Seamus Heaney
What bliss - a walk! We went over to Schull for some essential shopping at TJs wholefood shop (oats and muesli since you ask) and then arranged to meet Robert and Finola for a takeaway coffee and sticky followed by a walk. I'm still not exactly sure where we went but it was wonderful. All russets and ochres and murky greens, dense bogs, sparse mountains, dots of white houses, mossy walls, an abandoned homestead and a possible well. Lots of chat, lots of bog, lots of fresh air and not another soul to be seen, Very restorative. You get a selection of pix today, I couldn't really decided but the intrepid bogmen made me laugh - that bit was very tricky and I was only wearing my ankle wellies!