In The Sperrin Mountains
A hawk hangs
like the cross
beam of a crucifix
above the only
farmyard for miles.
Across heather
the smell of turf
is borne by a
summer's breeze.
An old photo
of my father's father
holding reins
upon a load
of Sperrin turf
his bearded face
similar to my own.
And my father
releasing pigeons
from where we
could see Lough
Neagh beyond.
Now wishing I
could reach out
and touch them
piercing the time
barrier from alongside
a peat bog in the Sperrins.
poem by Liam ó Comáin
Added by Poetry Lover
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