Bog Poem

Ok. So the main purpose of this blog is to to provide information and advice for people who are interested in getting out into the beautiful countryside that we are lucky to have in Ireland. I reference Sport Ireland on my homepage which gives a fantastic county by county guide to lovely walks that are available to hikers across the country. We have a beautiful country here in Ireland. Thinking back though, my love our beautiful countryside comes from my growing up in the pretty farmlands of the midlands of Ireland. Part of this growing up in the countryside was the annual trips to the bog. To get the turf ready. Then to bring it home. This bog poem tries to reflect what it actually means.

What does it mean though? It was always tough work. Back breaking work in truth. But it meant fuel for the fire. What kept us warm in the Winter. But more than that, it was a community affair. Neighbours helping neighbours.

I started working in the local pub at home when I was 16. In a country pub, there were two main points of conversation with the locals who came in. Turf and football. Turf is part of our fabric. We’ll continue to work the bog as long as we can. It’s part of the culture of the midlands. Part of us…

So here is a bog poem!

It is a slog,

This life of mine in the bog
Every year since the days before remembering,

Taught the rhythm, to smile and sing

Two by two by two by two

And stack them all around.

Hard work in this sodden ground

I complain, I fight, I strain – No!

But yet I always go…

Because my Father asks.

He is tough in these tasks.
The years go by –

Thoughts of turf still bring a sigh!

Yet we go.

My Father, my Brother, the men of the house. Bonding maybe? No…
But maybe.

There is love. Never quite explained.

Such things not really entertained…

So thoughts remain unsaid.

We know - but work the turf instead.
Two by two by two by two

And stack them all around
The years go by

And less the questioning of why.

This is our duty

We foot our turf for all to see.
I am proud of the work I do

Help my Father in labour true

Time passes, the world does change

But still me must fill the range.
The sun bakes, backs ache

As we ready turf to take

To home – trailers stacked most high

Sods this year to swear by!
And once it’s home

We then do feast.

Our happiness is sure released;

Spuds, butter, bacon, salt!

Hunger gone; we exalt!
Two by two by two by two

And stack them all around…

All to make our Father proud.

Hope you enjoyed the bog poem. You can follow me on Instagram if you want any more content on walking in the Irish countryside.