Bog Oak

a poem about the North of Ireland, where I'm from and in some ways can never leave.

Stern in black peat,
Black tea stew from Antrim
Too long in acid bog and marsh
Too long from sweet, salt sea.

From the Bible belt
From it's rotten core.
Not rotting but hardening
Damp seeping
Altering cream green vital timber
Staining brown grey
Drowning preserving.

Slowly darkening to ebony black
Hard ancient of the earth
Of the peat
Substance like judgement
Substance like guilt.