ON BRINDLED MOOR
On Brindled Moor there is a nothingness
That only a bog can invoke
And this vast Hebridean peat bog
Saying, there is nothing here,
Only what the eye can’t see.
This brown earth, stunned out of wonder,
With its wandering watercourses
Running through the peat; a feit,
Which resembles veins or sinews,
A bugha, a green bow-shaped sweep of moor grass,
Formed by the winding of the stream;
A rionnach maoim, casting shadows
On the moorland by clouds moving
Across the sky on a bright, windy day,
Lighting up what is suddenly
Not empty or meaningless at all.
Here we have chucky, clitter and fedster
Pipkrares and shuckle
Muxy rout and slunk,
And migrant birds arriving from distant places.
‘It is time to sing the world back into being
That static things may be caught
In the very act of becoming’