On the day that I was nearly famous
I went saving turf on Dermie’s bog.
In purple skirt and black jumper
I leaned into the handle of the old fork
smiling through my splintered life
which is still my way.
Photo Credit Nutan.
A while ago i wrote of how
i was filled with words
but something has happened since then
it’s my heart that’s full
(my brain has emptied)
i no longer want to speak
or even write since summer has arrived
Instead I want to leave those jumbled words behind
where wildflowers grow haphazardly in soft purple ditches
where rushes whisper by lonely lakes and white bog cotton shyly dips
her wispy head among rows of darkened turf
and clouds are of importance
where blue shadowed mountains are mysterious and beckoning
where the singing sea is soothing
where i can be silent and wandering
i will go there soon enough
I love this photo. It is the epitome of my summers in the west of Ireland, spent exploring small boreens and never knowing where I will end up. (though never getting lost as the twelve pins are always there somewhere in the background). Here is a type of Haiku, not completely true to form. An Irish Haiku maybe;
Brown turf heaped messily
the yellow bicycle resting
and look beyond!
tidy mountains and a certain summer sky.
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