THERE WAS NO SOUND IN THE BOG BUT HIS


THERE WAS NO SOUND IN THE BOG BUT HIS

https://youtu.be/NcD1k0LJmUM

There was no sound in the bog but his,

Chatting the breeze:

Building footings with dark turf,

Freshly cut and crusted on one side

Like loaves of bread:

His talk made him work faster,

Loving hands tendering sods,

The flowering of the black stuff:

When the day was done,

The field a mass of tiny towers:

He left them alone to breathe,

Dry air is music to wet turf.

I MET HIM IN THE WOOD