To the bog again,

with the ghosts of forefathers looking on,

surveying the task before them.

Along the turf face, the marks of the sleán,

slim, practised cuts,

a tribute to skills passed down the generations

who have worked this land

beyond memory.

Still-damp turves to turn,

dry stacks to gather in.

Fuel to stave off the cruel winter about to come.

Fuel to feed the generations yet to come.

Father teaching sons,

like so many fathers before him,

stretching out to the past,

into the future.