Bog Wood

A seed. Long dormant.

Lovingly laquered, cradled womb-like by gentle turf.

For many generations.

By some fair chance comes an unearthing:

A keen eye fashions wings from time-frozen knots.

Carves a thrusting neck and beak.

Unleashes a Phoenix, now poised mid-arc,

Or bursting from beneath the fish- harbouring waves.

From this crucible centuries long,

Soars this sea-bird in flight.


© Tom Tide 2017


One Comment Add yours

  1. Tom Tide says:

    Reblogged this on and commented:

    Seeing some photographs of Donegal brought this back to me…


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