The Turf Around Us

The Turf Around Us

By Paul McCann

Where the sun has been spared and the rain is well shared,

they’re cutting turf in the afternoon.

All the women and men who come down from the glen

would start whistling a wee tune .

A drop of cold tea there with soda bread to share  

as the daylight begins to get dim .   

Its hard work stacking turf and when you’ve done enough

its well worth all the effort put in.

It’s that dead and dry earth, that will not give the bud birth,

for roses to bloom in the bogs reach.

There’s a staircase to climb , where the moonbeams decline,

To shed light on soil back beyond the breach .

In the cracks you will find, no seeds there for the blind ,

and the tears that where shed to the moon .

The turf gives us life here in this land we love dear

and together we’re one in commune .    

So if flowers won’t grow , on this land that we know

we’ll take the turf of this wilderness .

What will become of us, when we return to dust

and who’ll cut the turf when we’re lifeless.