Here where bog meets
greets
there, the morning sky
The sigh
that haunts these fields
yields
where the prospect of the morrow lays
Weighs
upon the gentle minds of the people.

There are
like a bright star
Shining within the breath of day
They say
Those born of the ancient mire
consumed by the delicate fire
To range in words within
where tales linger, spin
upon the fringe of the day.

I hear the distant cry
in fields beneath where now they lie
Sonnets written with the quail
to sail
the vibrant seas of minds, hearts
those parts
which linger as a whisper within our souls
Burning like coals
Red hot to the dream, an ideal
That zeal
These fields have grown.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph