Barefoot on brown bog.
Red brown water squelches through my toes.
Smell of pink heather on the wind.
A lark fills his world with song.
My father white shirt rolled above his elbows
Sweat bubbles on his skin.
The sods make a sucking sound
as he cuts them from their boggy bed.
He lays them out side by side
like the fallen dead.
Then sweet smoky tea
thick cuts of brown bread.
Boiled eggs from a saucepan blackened
on the fires of a generation of bog trips
Nothing will ever taste so sweet
as those last few drops of homemade lemonade
licked from my lips.
My paternal grandmother who came from Ireland as a child used to bake that brown bread and I could taste in my mind while reading your poem. That's a memory that goes back 60 years! This a gem of a vignette, Not a wasted word. And no interpretation imposed. You just let the event, thoroughly dscribed, speak for itself. Because as Wallace Stevens put it, BEING THERE TOGETHER IS ENOUGH. And that includes us readers you invited along.
Such a lovely poem Noreen, indeed it brought back many happy memories.
So beautiful and evocative Noreen with vivid imagery of memories of a time long gone, but still ingrained in your memory capturing moments of everlasting joy!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The way things used to be. This is a lovely little narrative Noreen. Don't suppose there's a lot of turves being used these days. Home made brown bread and free range eggs no doubt, can't beat it. An enjoyable read.