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Fenor Bog
(This poem was inspired by a visit to Fenor Bog, Co Waterford, Ireland, in 2009)
Rooks in tall cedars by the tiny Church
squawk and squawk endlessly,
inviting us on to the broadwalk of re-cycled plastic lumbar-
an ingenious invention by the locals,
enabling visitors to walk dry-shod through Fenor Bog.
We welcomed the invitation
and stepped gingerly on to the broadwalk
for the afternoon was full of thick drizzle.
Large clumps of tussock sedge
lined the sides of the broadwalk,
the jagged edges of their long leaves
deterring invaders;
while water-horse-tail, bog-bean, ragged-robin,
mint, marsh-orchid and the many- headed bog cotton
together with vetch, meadow-sweet, scabious,
clumps of rushes, royal ferns
and bull-rush (those ‘natural snorklers’)
all shot through this water-logged,
immensely deep soup of peat, to greet us.
It was early July.
No blackberries yet.
No basking butterflies on the ground that day.
No buzzing bees or swallows
chasing flies across the Bog.
No dragon-flies skimming reeds in search of insects
No frogs, newts or sticklebacks
visible in the tinkling drain water under the bridge.
But, instead:
Mosses of brilliant yellow and gingery brown,
emerald green dotted with salmon pink.
Heaths and heathers sprinkled with
the yellow and orange of bog Asphodel,
ruby reds of cranberry flowers
and the frothy flowers of bog- bean-
a storehouse of natural variety
flanked by willow and alder; home to a million species!
Dreary and dead?
No! Never!
Not Fenor Bog!
I thought of Teilhard de Chardin and how he said,
“By virtue of the creation and still more of incarnation
nothing here below is profane for those who know how to see.”
Margaret Bradley
(Province of Britain and Ireland)
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